


A Special Place in Hell

by HotCrossPigeon, Mirach



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), King of Hell Aziraphale, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), but he doesn't Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotCrossPigeon/pseuds/HotCrossPigeon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: “There’s a special place in Hell for me. It’s called a throne.”Adam's shift of reality made Satan disappear and the nearest immortal entity got sucked into his role. Coincidentally at that time, Aziraphale was standing a few inches closer to the former King of Hell than Crowley.(The story is complete, with possible additions)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 659
Kudos: 599
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the POV pairs event in the form of a roleplay between Mirach as Aziraphale (and Dagon and Hastur) and HotCrossPigeon as Crowley (and Beelzebub). Our prompt was “a surprise”.  
> New chapters will be posted every Saturday until we finish the story or run out of prewritten chapters.
> 
> Note from Mirach: I got the idea for this story when finding out that Michael Sheen voices Lucifer Morningstar on the Audible original adaptation of The Sandman. The POV event seemed like a perfect opportunity to write it because I needed Crowley’s reactions to my ideas about Aziraphale, and I got an occasion to ask the author whose interpretation of Crowley I thoroughly enjoy to write it with me. Writing this together was great fun, and sometimes totally wild and unpredictable, and somehow this thing got much longer than either of us expected.

"Hello, Crowley, my dear fellow. I would like to discuss a certain issue with you. You see, I somehow got into a very peculiar predicament..."

Aziraphale sighed in frustration, pacing in his bookshop. "No no no, that sounds like I got my hand stuck in the sweets vending machine again."

He cleared his throat. "Hey Crowley, what's up? Better sit down because I have some news to tell you... And by some news I mean... errr..."

The angel groaned. "Oh Heavens, there's just no proper way to say this. Ugh, come on, Aziraphale, buck up! You just need to get to the point, that's all. Say the things as they are. No going in circles around the matter. Nice and accurate, right. Just tell him..."

He turned at the sound of the bookshop doorbell. "Hello Crowley! Nice weather, isn't it?"

"Wha..?" Crowley raised an incredulous eyebrow over the top of his sunglasses, a drop of water running along the edge of his nose. His red hair was plastered to his forehead. He turned to look out the window, jerking a thumb at the onslaught of vicious hail and rain that pelted the glass and plinked against the pane. "Oh, ha _ha_ , very funny. It's bloody bucketing down, angel! I legged it in here before I got clonked on the head with a hailstone the size of my fist." He stopped and frowned at the angel in concern. "Er... you all right? You're looking a bit peaky."

"Me? I'm just tickety-boo!" Aziraphale smiled nervously, glancing out of the window. "And that's what I meant - nice demonic weather, isn't it? It must be annoying to so many people. You sly serpent," he wiggled his finger in front of Crowley's face, "you must be enjoying it. From the inside, of course. With a cup of something hot. Tea or cocoa? And a towel?"

Crowley snapped his fingers and a jet of hot air dried his clothes and hair in an instant. He ran a hand through the fluffy red strands in an attempt to tame it back into its usual style, making a face, "You ever known me to drink tea?" He sauntered his way to the back room, and sprawled over the sofa in a mess of incongruous limbs. "Got anything stronger? Bit of whisky wouldn't go amiss, that'd warm me right up."

Aziraphale's expression got a hint of smugness, as if he recognised an occasion to share something he wanted to impress Crowley with for a while. "Do you know, actually alcohol doesn't warm you up at all? I read an article in the newspaper. It just dilates the blood vessels in the skin, so that you feel warmer, but your core temperature actually gets lower. Isn't that fascinating?"

Crowley blinked behind his sunglasses, mouth dropping into a pout. He didn't find it fascinating. But Aziraphale clearly thought it was. The angel's eyes were doing that twinkly thing they sometimes did, that the demon couldn't help but stare at. It was as if every light in the near vicinity had decided, at that moment, to dance about like a bunch of fairies in those blue eyes.

Crowley acknowledged the angel's statement with a dismissive wave of his hand before he got stuck staring. "Yep. Fascinating. Absolutely." He slunk further back into the sofa cushions, kicking his legs up over the arm.

Aziraphale had the tendency to spout off facts when he was nervous about something, and Crowley intended to find out what that was. And there was one sure fire way of loosening Aziraphale's tongue. Enormous Quantities of booze. "But, s'not got anything to do with me, has it? 'Cause I'm not a human. Now, are you gonna ply me with booze to stoke the fire in my demonic belly, or do I have to help myself?"

"Right, not human... silly me..." Aziraphale murmured. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but then he closed his mouth and headed to his well-stocked liquor cabinet. He poured two generous glasses of aged Talisker and headed back to the demon sprawled on his sofa.

"Cheers!" he smiled a bit nervously as he handed Crowley the drink.

The demon unravelled himself, sitting up to take it. He dutifully clinked his glass against the angel's, before tipping back a searing mouthful of the whisky.

Oof. That hit the spot, all right. It burnt all the way down, and made his eyes water, but he was sure he looked suitably cool. And no matter what Aziraphale had been harping on about, it had _definitely_ warmed him up, ta very much.

Now, to get to the bottom of whatever said angel was currently fretting about. Because he was obviously fretting about something. Crowley cradled the glass in his palms and leant forward, his yellow eyes peeking over the rim of his sunglasses. "You gonna sit down?"

"If... If there's nothing else you would like... that I can offer you as a host, you know..." Aziraphale looked at the demon questioningly, but when he got no such request, he stepped towards his armchair. "If not though, I suppose I can sit down. Have a nice little chat. About... things. You're sure you don't want the tea? No? Okay."

He sat down and stared into his glass for a moment. Then he brought it to his lips and downed its contents in one long gulp.

Crowley let his glasses slide all the way down his nose in shock. Wuh - what. Waitwaitwait. Downing a drink without even savouring the subtle notes? Without closing his eyes in rapture? Without humming contentedly about the mouthfeel? Without even deigning the aroma an angelic sniff?

"All right, that's it," the demon said, downing his own drink in kind, "out with it, angel. What's bothering you?"

"Bothering me? Why do you think something is bothering me, dear?" Aziraphale asked tensely, avoiding Crowley's intent look, but he seemed a little relieved to be asked directly without having to breach the subject himself. He rolled the empty glass between his palms. "Oh, all right, very well... there is one issue that I... that... oh Heavens, Crowley, I really don't know how to tell you this!"

Crowley tried to stay silent, knowing that sometimes that was the best way to coax the angel out of his shell. He took his sunglasses off, hanging them on the edge of his collar - and then his mouth ran off without him anyway, as it tended to do when he was nervous. Aziraphale was making him jittery - the angel usually only got this way when Heaven was involved, and that was the last thing they bloody needed. "Just, er, start from the beginning? You can tell me anything, you know that, right? I won't judge. I mean, I'm a demon, be a bit hypocritical of me to judge you, wouldn't it?"

Aziraphale continued staring into his drink, and Crowley's stomach dipped in panic. "Oh, bugger... is it bad? It's bad, isn't it?"

"Yes. No. I don't know! It's just so strange... Promise me you won't laugh?" Aziraphale took a deep breath. "So... there really is no proper way to put it. About the judging... I could actually judge you. I wouldn't, of course, but I could. I don't mean some moral high ground. It just seems that I am your superior. And not superior in the meaning of better, either. The... um.. _highest_ superior. Boss. Chief. Whatever. Not that I would want to boss you around, absolutely not!" he hurried to add. "But technically speaking, I could. From the position of... um..." The inner fight to say those words aloud was visible in Aziraphale's face. As if by saying it, it would become more real, more present. But it made no difference. It was real. He felt it deep inside. He glanced at Crowley anxiously and quipped: "...kingofhelll."

Crowley stared. And then he stared some more. His mouth curled up on one side. "... You _wot_."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale pouted. "You promised not to laugh! Well... you didn't actually but I asked you for it, so it was implied. I didn't know what was happening, either. But this arrived in the morning and it explains it rather well." He took a missive from his pocket. It had the unmistakable sigils and faint smell of an official Hell's document and it was addressed to the "Entity holding the authority of the King of Hell".

Crowley squinted his eyes. "Pfffft. King of Hell. That's hilarious. You're having me on, angel. Nope. No way. I'm not falling for this - I mean, yeah, I'm impressed that you went to such lengths to pull my leg, and I have to admit that is an excellent forgery, in fact it looks, uh - looks just like the real thing, but -" he stopped and sniffed, nostrils flaring. His pupils dilated. "Oh, _shit_ , that is actually from Hell, isn't it? Gimme. What's it say?"

Aziraphale pouted, withdrawing the missive. "Pray tell me, why on earth would I do something like this as a practical joke? Other than making you treat me as your king, which is ridiculous... although, thinking of it now, not without an appeal, since one tends to take a king seriously," he gave Crowley a glare. But then he handed him the note. "Here, see for yourself if you don't believe me," he said and poured himself another glass of whisky.

" _Your Infernal Lowness,_ " the note read, " _we humbly request you to take your rightful place as the Ruler of Hell. This might be confusing to you, if you are not aware of the situation, but we assure you it is no mistake. This missive is guided by a powerful desummoning spell, designed to trace the being carrying the authority of the King of Hell after an incident with his offspring left the original owner of the title absent. We would be grateful if... Bless it, Dagon, I just had a terrible thought. What if it's that bastard Crowley? He was the closest demon when it happened. What if he got sucked into the power vacuum? That would explain his confidence at the... wait, are you writing this? Oh bugger, I'm not wasting another spell on a new missive, just send it and hope it's not Crowley. With worst regards, Lord of Flies and Lord of Files (please note the difference in the titles)._ "

Crowley sucked in a breath. Then he read the note again. Right. Yep. No mistaking it. The world had gone mad. His mouth flapped as his brain did its best to catch up. "Wha - wait a minute, what do they mean _'not Crowley'?_ The cheek! What's wrong with me? I'd be a great King of Hell! I'd be bloody fantastic, me -" and then the mental cog finally clicked into place, and the weight of the situation made itself known to him. He spluttered, "Wait - you - wait. Wait. You're the new King of Hell? You. _What._ "

He lurched forward, the note dropping on the floor forgotten, as he snatched up one of Aziraphale's warm hands, eyes searching the angel's face frantically. "Angel. What did they do? Are you hurt? I'll kill them, I swear, if they've taken your halo, I'll -"

Aziraphale's expression softened with Crowley's concern. "No, no, my dear," he said. "That's the most peculiar thing about it. I'm pretty certain I'm still an angel. But I'm pretty certain that I'm also the King of Hell. I suppose Adam did indeed make Satan disappear, the nearest immortal entity must have been sucked into the power vacuum and it didn't really matter whether it was an angel or a demon."

That… made a lot of sense, actually. Aziraphale had always been very clever, of course he'd worked out the particulars. Crowley wondered for a second if it could all be a set up on Beelzebub's end, a trap or something equally nefarious, but demons didn't have nearly enough imagination for something this elaborate. It was just crazy enough to be true.

"Perhaps there's not that much difference between occult and ethereal, after all," mused Aziraphale. "And so it seems that I stood just a tad closer than you. Pity, really. You would make a great King... but, tell me my dear, what am I supposed to do as one?"

Bugger if Crowley knew. He was still trying to wrap his brain cell around the idea. "Er, well, I guess that you could do anything you want, angel. Holy shit - actually, yeah - _anything you bloody want._ I mean, you're basically Sssssatan."

Aziraphale. Satan. That didn't sound right _at all_. Crowley poked his tongue out to tentatively lick the paper, just to make doubly certain that this was indeed an official document - much to the horror of Aziraphale, who had a lot to learn about demonic tendencies if that was enough to disgust him. Just wait 'til he saw what happened to the walls Down There, that would really gross him out.

Crowley grimaced. Yep. Definitely of Hellish origin, no mistaking the taste of it. This was the real deal.

"Er, not that you'll be anything like Satan," he amended, "bound to smell a bit better, anyway."

"A ringing endorsement," muttered Aziraphale dryly.

A teasing grin burst onto Crowley's face and he ducked into a deep sweeping bow, "Your majesty."

He still had a hold of Aziraphale's fingers and dipped his head over the plump hand.

"Crowley! This is not a matter for joking," Aziraphale frowned. "It's absolutely ridiculous! Good gracious, I can't be the King of Hell! And you - you don't even have an allegiance to them, and you were glad to be rid of them. As you should be. Why would I want to rule over that? It's a terrible idea, absolutely terrible - oh, what am I supposed to do?"

"Well, what do you _want_ to do?"

The angel wrung his hands.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale then, taking in all of the soft bits, the bastard bits, everything that made the angel who he was. Aziraphale was clearly fretting about taking on the responsibility and power of the King of Hell because he thought he wasn't worthy of it, but if he could just see himself through Crowley's eyes, then he'd realise the truth of the matter.

The demon found him completely bloody spectacular. He always had. Definitely King material. Sod it, he could blaspheme, Aziraphale was up there. Right at the top. Capable of anything, the old angel, if he put his mind to it. Heaven were idiots for not seeing it.

"Don't get me wrong, I still think it's completely bananas - minor breakdown pending, believe me - but. She has her mysterious ways, doesn't she? Maybe this is what She had planned, all along." Crowley continued in a softer tone, cajoling, "Wouldn't put it past Her to still be poking Her fingers into things. You've got something here, angel, an opportunity, if you want it. And yeah, all right, they're a bunch of bastards Down There, but maybe under new management they could learn to do things differently... I mean, look at me. There's your proof. I don't think I'd be the demon I am, if I hadn't met you."

"You're being serious?" Aziraphale blinked. "Good Lord, you are... you really think I could do it..." Something in his face shifted then, as if he only now, with Crowley's trust in him, started to really consider the idea and its possibilities. "Could it really be Her doing? But what would She want me to do? I'm an angel, no self-respecting demon would obey me... no offence, dear."

Aziraphale clearly underestimated the power of his puppy dog eyes. Crowley scratched his own ear, tilting his head back. "Eh, demons are fickle creatures. If you want their respect you have to earn it. Remember, they basically told God Herself to bugger off, so if you're going to lead them you have to _believe_ that you can do it. Be confident. They'll sniff out any weaknesses - er, _literally_ actually, we can smell that sort of thing like a bad cologne." Crowley looked up at the angel, a wicked smile tempering the soft look in his eyes. "Come on, you could handle a few cranky demons with your eyes closed. You've faced down Archangels and Princes of Hell before. As for what She wants you to do, your guess is as good as mine. Think we'll just have to go Down There and see what we're up against."

The anxiety in Aziraphale's eyes gave way to some thought that made them sparkle a little, and his lips pressed together as if stifling a smile. "Can you imagine..." he chuckled, "...can you imagine Beelzebub's and Dagon's face when they find out that there is one option they didn't even think about, and that they should have wished for it to be you?"

Crowley snickered, rubbing a hand down his face with a snort of glee, "Oh angel, they have _no idea_ what they're in for."

"Will you go with me, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked with a mix of hope and concern. "It should be safe for you, if I really do have the authority of the King of Hell, right? But what if I'm not able to keep it? Your lot is rather known for rebelling against authorities. What if I don't even get a chance to keep it? It could get dangerous for you."

"Of course I'm bloody going with you," Crowley insisted, with a flap of his hand, as if it wasn't even worth his time to entertain otherwise, "and we won't know what's gonna happen until it happens. But if it comes down to a fight then I'd like to see them try and take the two of us on. They think we're indestructible!"

"Well, we did face Satan together..." Aziraphale murmured, "and this time, I _am_ basically Satan, so it's not like we're going to face all of them. It's them who are going to face _us_ , right?"

He downed his glass of whisky determinedly. "Okay. We'll go together. But first I would appreciate it if you could tell me all you know about the protocol or etiquette or the Hellish equivalent of it, if there is such a thing. I wouldn't want to do some faux-pas on the first day of the job."

Crowley blinked. "Etiquette? Pfffft. It's _Hell_ , angel. Demons rebelled to get away from rubbish like that," he slouched a bit, thinking, "I s'pose there is a hierarchy which you'd normally have to respect - but sod that, because you're at the Top, er Bottom, er, you're the Big Boss. You'd be the one calling the shots. No one dared go against anything Lucifer said, but then again, he _did_ have the power to turn into a great big red monster with horns of flame and eyes of eternal fire, so there's that..." the demon tilted his head, wonderingly, "I don't suppose this new title of yours came with any cool hitherto untapped Hellish powers?"

At Aziraphale's wide-eyed stare, Crowley waggled his glass in the hopes of a refill.

"Shame. Well, the only other stuff I can think of is, while we're down there, don't compliment anyone. Gives demons a nasty rash. And maybe try not to apologise either - no rash or anything with that one, it just makes demons uncomfortable. And whatever you do, angel... don't lick the walls."

Aziraphale filled Crowley's glass a bit absently, thinking about his words. "I would have preferred more rules," he sighed, "it's so much easier when interactions are scripted."

"Well, I mean... if you're worrying about it that much, you could just _ignore_ the summons...?" offered Crowley, with a shrug. "We could bugger off to the moon for a bit instead, while you mull it over. There's not much up there, true, and it's a bit on the dusty side, but it might do in a pinch. Put down a blanket. Bit of earthgazing. We could bring a picnic."

"Am I worrying too much?" Aziraphale pouted, not to be swayed by the offer of a picnic when he was wound up as tight as a spring. "Tell me then, what's the normal amount of worrying appropriate for being summoned as a ruler of the lot that intended to kill your... ah, that is... someone you care about? I am not going to flee to the moon," he frowned stubbornly. "But I simply can't be all nonchalant about it."

"All right, all right," Crowley put a hand up, in acquiescence, "I'm not trying to say you should be nonchalant about it! I'm just saying you always do this - you tie yourself in knots fretting about things. And so far, everything's always worked out in the end, hasn't it? What's that saying," he snapped his fingers, trying to remember. "That's it - 'if you worry, you suffer twice'. You know me angel, I'd much rather just do something to get it over with, and suffer the consequences later. Take the bollocks life throws at you in your stride."

He took another sip of whisky. There were so many conflicting thoughts in his head but the main one, as always, was _keep Aziraphale safe_. And failing that, _follow the idiot and get him out of trouble_.

"Listen, the way I see it - they're bound to figure out who the new King of Hell is sooner or later, and I dunno about you, but I'd rather have the element of surprise on our side. Just - act like you own the place. Think of Hell like - like one of your first editions that some rotten old customer is trying to get you to part with. Stoke up a bit of wrath, you know. I know you've got it in you."

"Hmm. Hell seems more like the rude customer than a first edition. Or both at once, maybe. So, you are saying we should just go there and get it over with?"

Crowley made a face. "Yes. No. Yes. No - ack... I know that sounds crazy! But what else can we do? You know I hate waiting around for bad things to happen. But it's not my choice to make, it's your decision, angel. Whatever you want to do, we'll do. Simple as that."

"Okay. Well, you've made a number of interesting points there, but I need a moment. Let's finish the bottle first. Then we can sober up and go."

Crowley nodded. "Sounds like a plan," he agreed, with a small grin.

He might have been fibbing a bit, maybe, by pretending he was taking this sudden turn of events well. If he was honest, the last thing he bloody wanted was for Aziraphale to go back down into Hell. The whole thing was a bit bloody terrifying, actually. He was currently resisting the urge to turn into a snake, wrap around Aziraphale like a safety blanket, and hide them both under the sofa. But if they had to go to Hell, he wanted it to be on their terms.

He'd protect Aziraphale. With his life, if need be. If they couldn't bugger off to the moon, it was better to go in there first, than wait around for the cavalry to come to them.

"Be a piece of cake, angel, you'll see," the demon said, and threw back the rest of his drink.

Aziraphale refilled both of their glasses.

Half-way through the bottle, he looked up at Crowley. "I'm really glad you're taking it so calmly, dear. I've been freaking out since the morning and would be freaking out still without you."

Crowley nodded, freaking out internally. But he was getting pleasantly tipsy now and it was doing wonders for his nerves. Maybe it would be better to go down into Hell sloshed out of their minds, though he doubted Aziraphale would warm to the idea. He did like to do things with a bit of decorum.

"Pah," he scoffed. "If you were freaking out it's only 'cause you care about doing things right. Another reason you're the best one for the job."

"Didn't really work that well with the last job though," Aziraphale slurred, about two quickly downed glasses ahead of Crowley. "Never could get it right, no matter how I tried."

"They didn' deserve you, angel, load of old tossers that lot."

"Hmm, well. Maybe 'tis time to try something else, what d'you think?"

"Whaaaay. I'll drink to that," said Crowley, leaning forward to clink his glass against Aziraphale's with a conspiratorial wink. "To your new job, then, angel. To the new King of Hell!" He raised his glass in salute, "Cheers."

"Cheers," Aziraphale giggled and took a gulp of whisky. Then he stared into the glass. "Wait wait wait... I've got a seria... serious question. Crowley," he frowned at the demon and pointed an accusing finger at him. "Tell me truthfully. Do I give you a rash?"

Crowley was momentarily bemused by the question. "Eh?" he said, intelligently. "Oh, right, the whole - thing. With the. Right. The thing. Nah, don't worry, gained an immunity, me. Being on Earth with you so long, I mean. Feel free to compliment me all you like."

Aziraphale looked at him suspiciously, one eyebrow raised, processing the thought. "Okay," he nodded finally, with all the seriousness befitting the matter of such importance. Then he refilled their glasses a bit unsteadily, leaving the bottle empty.

Crowley accepted the drink. "Ssssso... you're just gonna take my word for it, then? Don't you wanna compliment me and make sure I don't break out into hives, or sprout some bubonic boils?"

Aziraphale smiled smugly. "Fishing for compliments, you wily serpent?"

"Pah. Don't need to fish for them, ackshually. Don't even _need_ to."

"Is that so? All right, how about I give you a compliment, if you repay the favour. So, here goes." Aziraphale frowned in thought, his tongue loosened by the alcohol. "Oh yes. I... um... really admire your eyes. They are so warm. Like... like honey. No no no, honey isn't warm, is it? Unless you warm it. Mhm, warm honey cake... oh, or amber! No, amber's not warm, either, is it? Wait, it's not the colour that's warm. It's that they make me feel... feel warm. Inside, I mean. Like whisky, hehe. Oh, but that's not actually making you warmer, just constricting the blood vessels in your skin, did you know that?" He studied his glass for a moment. "So not like whisky," he concluded. "I fear I don't really know what your eyes are alike to... but they're jolly nice. Jolly nice indeed." He nodded to himself contentedly and took a sip.

Crowley felt a soft, silly little smile rebelliously take up residence on his face. He was going for a smirk, but it had gentled somewhere along the way, as it often did when he was in the company of Aziraphale. "Yeah?" he murmured, afraid of breaking whatever this gentle thing was that had stretched between them.

Then he snorted, eyes darting away. "Only you would liken my eyes to food and booze, angel." He rolled up his sleeves with intention, baring the pale skin. "See? See that? No rash! Ha! Told you."

Aziraphale put on his reading glasses that he didn't really need and inspected Crowley's skin with his full attention for a few minutes. He nodded to himself then. "I do believe that you owe me a compliment, dear," he said innocently.

"Pffft. I compliment you all the time, angel. Like - like... er," he waggled a hand in Aziraphale's face.

He could think of a million things to say, but his mouth just flapped and nothing useful came out. He wanted to say that when the angel smiled he lit up the entire room and Crowley had to find the nearest object to cling onto because his knees got weak and he'd end up face down on the floor otherwise. He wanted to tell Aziraphale that no one should have cheeks that dimpled like that, it should be made illegal, and the less said about his bloody twinkling eyes the better. Not to mention his sharp wit, and the way he could send away a potential customer just by glaring at them.

Honestly, there was something beautiful to be found in everything Aziraphale did. The joy he took in the little things. He was ridiculous, and wonderful, and Crowley would be damned again before he admitted a word of that out loud.

So he said nothing of the sort.

"You're very, you know, _you_. Aren't you," he said instead.

And that was the biggest compliment of all.

He finished it with a "So there" that was mumbled into the rim of his glass.

"That doesn't count," Aziraphale insisted. "Me being me... that's not a compliment."

"Is too."

Aziraphale frowned at some memory or memories. "Usually, it used to be everything but a compliment. But you're right. You already gave me a few today. I want to do another. Can I do another, to make sure you really are immune?"

"Wouldn't be opposed, angel," mumbled Crowley, pretending he wasn't intrigued to hear what the angel had to say about him, "knock yourself out."

Aziraphale smiled. The combination of the new important position, the possibility of something nasty happening to him because of said position, and the effects of the alcohol were making him feel exceptionally courageous, it seemed. "You're so brave, my dear," he said. "You just face things as they come, and don't worry about them. I wish I could be so brave..."

Crowley looked at him incredulously. "I'm not the brave one here, angel. First sign of trouble and I'm trying to convince you to run away with me - a coward, that's what I am. You want a proper compliment?" he took in a breath, and thought, sod it, Aziraphale deserved to know. And he was, at this point, fairly sozzled, so it seemed like a fantastic idea. "You're the bravest being I've ever known. Look up brave in the dictionary, s'you. Big old picture of you. Your face."

"Oh, now you're just being _silly_ -"

"Sshh! Oi, wasn't finished. Yes, you worry too much, and yeah, you get scared, but that just makes you all the braver when you pick yourself up and carry on regardless, doesn't it? S'what bravery is - standing up to what makes you wanna run away, and you've done that, over n' over, and over n' over." He tipped back the dregs in his glass, and then squinted at it with a pout, "Oops. Empty."

Aziraphale shook his head. "I really don't think I'm brave. But you are right," he finished his drink and put down the glass. "Time to stand up to what I fear..."

"What... _now?_ You want to go right now?" Crowley's mouth went dry. He'd grown all warm and fuzzy and content, with all of the alcohol and conversation. It could have been any other time spent in the angel's back room. The sudden reminder that they were about to enter Hell and face his old bosses was like a shock of cold water to his face. "Right. Er. Right, 'course... it'll be fine, angel. Better than. Nothing to fear with me by your side, eh?"

"Yes, exactly," Aziraphale nodded determinedly and then he grimaced as he willed the alcohol out of his body and into the bottle. "Ugh," he grimaced again, this time with the sober perspective on the situation.

No, complete sobriety didn't seem like the best state for this. He took the bottle, poured himself half a glass and downed it quickly. "Now we may go."

Crowley pondered the merits of staying completely pickled, but then reasoned he needed his wits about him if he was going to keep Aziraphale safe. He stuck his tongue out and wrinkled his nose as the alcohol was purged from his system. "Blech," he groused, popping his sunglasses back on, "all right, then. Let's see what we're up against, eh angel?"

"Yes, my dear. Let's take the main entrance," Aziraphale said, adjusting his bowtie.


	2. Chapter 2

They really were going to Hell.

Crowley cleared his throat and then stepped forward. He brought his hands up to Aziraphale's bow tie before he could think better of it, adjusting the soft material with nimble fingers where it had been knocked askew slightly during their drinking. Then he smoothed down the crumpled lapels of the angel's coat. "There," he said, a little croakily, giving the angel a crooked smile as he stepped away and to the door, "Come on then, can't keep your subjects waiting."

Aziraphale froze for a moment. He used to adjust his clothes subconsciously, a little gesture to comfort himself when he felt out of control. But when Crowley did it, he was suddenly very conscious of the touch. He blinked. "Yes, right. They are waiting..." He adjusted his perfectly orderly bow tie again and followed Crowley.

"It's still chucking it down outside," grumbled Crowley, squinting out into the rain from where he'd just opened the door. The water was coming down in sheets now, pattering loudly against the pavement and steps - they'd be soaked in seconds. "Might want a brolly." The demon snagged a tartan umbrella from the stand nearby and then grimaced at it, "eurgh, you hold it. It's just a quick dash to the Bentley, but it wouldn't do to turn up wet to your own coronation."

Crowley had decided that he was going to refrain from doing any unnecessary magic, just in case things went sour later, and he had to stop time or something equally crazy in order to save their skins.

But then again, if Aziraphale complained of a damp collar and set those beseeching blue eyes on him, he dare say he might expend a little miracle or two to keep the angel happy.

Aziraphale took the umbrella and as he stepped out, he opened it and held it above both of them as they walked to the Bentley.

Crowley hurriedly opened the passenger door for the angel then legged it to his side to avoid getting drenched. Once inside the car, the rain pelted off the bonnet and windows with a low drumming sound that did nothing for either of their nerves. It sounded rather like a call to war.

The drive to the main entrance of Hell was quiet and Crowley ground his teeth together so hard he was surprised his fangs hadn't softened into nubs. The building pulled into view ahead of them. _Well,_ he glanced at the suspiciously silent angel in the passenger seat, _here goes nothing._

Aziraphale was quiet and collected. He didn't even adjust his bow tie or tug at the hem of his waistcoat during the ride, didn't complain about the speed. He just stared out of the window. When they stopped, he didn't wait for Crowley to open the door for him but got out of the car and opened the umbrella, meeting the demon half-way. His polished shoes made a regular sound on the wet pavement - steady, carefully measured steps, like the ticking of a metronome. He only paused for a moment in front of the escalator, the ingrained habit steering him to the one going up. His face was almost relieved when he turned away from it, and started sinking into the floor together with Crowley.

Crowley tentatively nudged Aziraphale with his shoulder as they stood side by side on the escalator. Nothing much, just the barest companionable touch. A subtle reminder they were in this together. "Can't wait to see the looks on their faces," he whispered, with a conspiring grin, trying to coax a smile out of the angel.

It was just a half-smile that he managed to coax, and it disappeared quickly. But Crowley could sense that Aziraphale was not afraid. The last time the angel had been here, he was forced to witness the attempted execution of his best friend from a point of view that offered a really immersive experience. No, Aziraphale was not afraid. He was angry.

The general atmosphere that permeated Hell fitted that mood quite well. It felt like a pot of stew - meat of dubious origin and excessive amount of cheap spice to cover the taste - bubbling on a too hot stove, threatening to boil over at any moment.

"Take me to Beelzebub," Aziraphale snapped at the first unlucky demon he saw, a scarred fellow with ashen skin and reptilian scales around their eyes.

The unfortunate demon underling nearly tripped over himself to complete the request. Something about the angel giving off a whiff of menacing intent, probably. Crowley glanced at Aziraphale through the side gap of his sunglasses. Aziraphale usually presented himself as soft and gentle, it was easy to forget that he knew how to wield a flaming sword, that he was, at heart, a guardian, a soldier.

He was, Crowley allowed himself to think, inside the safety of his own mind, absolutely bloody gorgeous when he was angry. Well. Absolutely bloody gorgeous all the time, really.

"They're through that door," panted the lower demon, acting as though he'd just run a marathon instead of leading them down a few dank and smelly corridors. He pointed to the end of the hallway and then turned on his heel and fled. Crowley couldn't say he blamed them, this wasn't gonna be pretty.

"Thank you kindly," Aziraphale told the demon, even though they were already turned away, because being angry and having a high position was no reason to stop being polite, was it? He stopped in front of the door and looked at Crowley, trying to banish the picture of a bathtub that immediately came to his mind. Thankfully it was in a different room. "Shall we?" he asked, equally polite, but with a lot more warmth in his voice.

Crowley nodded his head, vibrating with nervous energy. "Want me to announce you, oh great King?" he asked with a teasing smile, and then actually put some thought into it, and found himself frozen with the weight of what they were about to do.

"Er, do you want to knock, or should we just barge in? Actually, I don't think Kings are supposed to knock, are they? Might be a bit below them. Right. Bit of dramatic flair then, burst in unannounced sort of thing, I mean, er, well, not unannounced exactly, 'cause they did invite you, it's not like they're not expecting someone to turn up, just uh, not you." He bit the inside of his cheek to cut the ramble off.

All right, so Crowley might have been feeling nervous, a bit. Shh.

"Let's go surprise them, eh?" He put one long fingered hand on the door, before he could think better of it. "If you want, I mean. Still time to back out."

Aziraphale put his hand over Crowley's, pressing it reassuringly. He felt like he already spent most of his worries and now that the thing he worried about was actually happening, there was a strange, detached clarity in his thoughts. He pushed the door and it opened for him immediately, despite actually opening in the other direction.

Crowley could hear the flies first, the frenzied buzzing was like a high pitched drone within. Huh, what do you know, it sounded like even old Beelzebub themselves might be a bit frazzled by this whole thing.

"That's them," came a muffled hiss, "Zzztand up straight, for Hell's sake!"

Crowley felt the nerves wriggle around in his belly, he was half wary, half stifling a slightly hysterical grin.

He walked resolutely by the angel's side as they finally entered the room.

"Your infernal majezzzzty, we have awaited your esteemed arrival -" began Lord Beelzebub, and then they got a glimpse of just who was currently walking towards them and their mouth flopped open. Then they got ahold of themselves and looked about ready to strangle the nearest thing they could get their hands on. "Oh, for crying out _loud_. I knew it. I thought this couldn't get any _worze!_ Traitor!"

_Bring in the traitor._

_The trial of a traitor._

_Traitor._

Aziraphale's rage was cold and white, sharp like a surgical blade. "It _could_ get worse," he said with a quiet menace, "If you keep calling him that."

Something in the atmosphere in the room changed - a subtle shift of power and authority.

Dagon opened her mouth and closed it again like a fish out of water. She looked at Beelzebub. "My Lord... I... I don't think it's Crowley."

To be fair to Lord Beelzebub, they only appeared flabbergasted for a few seconds, before schooling their features back into their usual grimace. They weren't the Prince of Hell for nothing, after all. "An _angel?_ How did this happen? This can't be - Dagon, this has got to be against the rulezz."

They got out of their chair and came forward, shoes clicking on the floor. The large fly on top of the Prince's head emitted a deep buzzing that resonated through the air - an intimidation tactic, and one that would have lesser beings quaking in their shoes. But Aziraphale stood firm.

Beelzebub's face contorted as they swept calculating pale blue eyes over the angel. Their lip curled in disgust and they turned back to Dagon, dismissing Aziraphale entirely. "Clearly, there's been a mizztake."

"It's hard to tell, my Lord," Dagon said nervously. "I fear there is no mention about such a process in the files. There is no precedent, you see."

Aziraphale watched them dispassionately. "Excuse me. You called me here," he said. "I'm afraid if there's been a mistake, it's on your part."

"And," drawled Crowley, "for the record, I don't think it's a mistake at all. In fact, I think you should count yourselves lucky."

Beelzebub turned ice cold eyes on him. "Be quiet, traitor, or we will remove your forked tongue. This doezzn't concern you."

Aziraphale stepped in front of Crowley, his eyes aflame with holy wrath of a Guardian angel. "You will do no such thing and you will stop calling him that. I am your King and that is no mistake. But being disrespectful to me or Crowley... now, that would be one."

Crowley peeped his head over the angel's shoulder, "Yeah, what he said," he input, helpfully.

"Respect is earned," Beelzebub droned, disinterestedly, "and you've shown me nothing to prove yourself worthy of the title." They levelled the angel with a glare. "You are zzoft, you wouldn't last Down Here. And besides, an angel cannot rule over Hell. It's _ridiculous_. You are wazzzting our time. I suggest you and your pet demon leave, if you wish to keep your lives."

With Beelzebub no longer threatening Crowley, Aziraphale's look got a bit less of an "avenging angel" expression and more of a "dealing with customers in my bookshop" one, although the difference was quite subtle.

"I rather agree, it's ridiculous," he said. "One has to wonder what that abstract kingly authority actually is and how it's passed on. Do you know, it used to work similarly with human kings? The king died... and instantly, his heir became the new king. No proving anything, no job interview, just an instant transfer of power, and everyone just started to obey him. There was the coronation to make it official, of course, but that was just a formality. Not always, though."

He looked straight at Beelzebub. "Sometimes, there were nobles who rebelled against that transfer of authority, who wanted to take a chance against a king they perceived as weak and set their own candidate for the throne. They were never supported fully because the natural state of things is going with the authority. So there was always inner strife and fighting when something like that happened. Is that what you want? I should say "be my guest", because weakening Hell is a rather angelic thing to wish for, but I actually don't want to do that. I have this… dear me, it's quite difficult to explain. I have this sudden strange feeling of responsibility for all of Hell. It comes with the title, I suppose."

"Hmm. That is very interesting. Are you aware of my title?" asked Beelzebub, stepping closer. "Becauzze as _Prince_ of Hell, by your own reazzoning, I am the natural heir to the throne. Tell me, why do you think you deserve to be King more than I do?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "No idea. I really didn't ask for it, but somehow that instant transfer of authority happened and it went to me. Now I only see two options. Either we work together to keep Hell in order... or as much order as possible... or there is an inner strife that can get quite nasty. Believe me, I saw that many times in history."

Beelzebub bared their teeth. "Are you inzzane? You think there won't be strife if we put an _angel_ in charge? There'll be an uprising! We've been waiting six thousand years to fight your kind in a war to end all wars! No self-respecting demon would _ever_ bow to an angel."

They turned their eyes on Crowley, meaningfully, their lip curling in disgust.

Crowley blinked behind his sunglasses, "Oh, you mean me? You're talking about _me_. Right, yeah, s'pose that's fair. Surely, though, I just prove that it's possible for an angel and a demon to work together without killing one another."

"I don't really ask for bowing, but that is a fair point," Aziraphale said. "What shall we do about it?"

"We?" Beelzebub scoffed, "This is not _my_ problem, it's yours. You want to be King? You'll have to prove yourself."

Aziraphale looked around. "Well... _want_ might be a bit too strong a word. I wouldn't really mind abdicating in your favour if you find some way of doing it that would be safe for me. I did some research about it when I got your letter and I didn't find anything like that though, so I fear you are stuck with me and it is your problem equally as mine. So how do you propose I should prove myself?"

Beelzebub bristled, clearly bothered by Aziraphale's calm logic. "Perhaps it would come down to whether you could defeat all of our best fighters in combat. And as amusing as it would be to watch them zzzslaughter you, I'd rather not let anyone else know about this until we have no other choice." They turned to the side, "Dagon, is there any way to revoke the angel's claim to the throne?"

"Uhm... there really is no precedent, my Lord," Dagon said. "If we figure it out, it would have to be by trial and error. But I think, with the public character of the title, the abdication would have to be public to work, too. And figuring it out by trial and error publicly is something that... might not really improve the situation right now."

"What situation?" Aziraphale asked. "I don't really think defeating some brute would prove much, you know. You respect strength, I understand that, but it doesn't really prove the ability to rule anyone."

Beelzebub growled low in their throat, the sound reverberating like a disturbed beehive. "Then what does?" they asked, "How would you rule exactly? I can't believe I'm even azzzking. For all we know, you could try to turn Hell into your own verzzzion of Heaven. There was a reason we all fell. To never again have to lizzzten to someone like _you_."

"Interesting," Aziraphale said.

He looked around for a chair, but decided against that idea when he saw Beelzebub's chair covered in sticky stains. He leant on the table instead, making a thoughtful expression.

"So you fell so that you could listen to someone else instead? What actually was Satan's way of ruling? I don't think Crowley mentioned him ever being present for the everyday matters. He left that to you, didn't he? Was he even available when there was some emergency or did he let you to deal with that as well? You really don't need to be afraid that I'd try to turn it into some version of Heaven here. I hate that open space, it makes you feel so exposed. You've got it much more cosy here, although you could use some better plumbing and a change of lightbulbs."

Crowley nodded, looking around the grungy room. "Could do something about the mould too, while you're at it. I mean, I know we're demons, and there's a certain amount of dinginess that comes with the territory, but that doesn't mean we can't have a bit of comfort, eh? Never really understood why it had to be so dark and depressing down here."

Beelzebub looked at the two of them as if they were mad. Which, fair point. "It's _Hell_. Of course it's dark and - zzzzzzz never mind! You are _infuriating_." They wafted a hand, in annoyance. "To answer your question. Without Satan there wouldn't _be_ a Hell. He was an inspiration to all of us. While it's true that I handled most matters, because they were below Him, it only worked because I had His backing. He struck fear into the heart of every demon. They only obeyed because they were afraid they'd get their eternal soul burned for all eternity... well, that and they often enjoy doing temptations. The truth izzz. You are no replacement for Him."

"Hm. Well, it seems there _is_ a Hell without Satan. Whether it's because his title went to me or despite it is questionable, but obviously Hell didn't stop existing. It kind of sucks though, obeying just because you fear that your soul will burn for all eternity, doesn't it? Haven't you said that you fell so you wouldn't have to obey? I must say I don't really have an ambition to be a replacement for that, thank you very much." Aziraphale smiled benevolently.

"Yeah, that's a point. That went for you too, right?" asked Crowley, raising his eyebrows at Beelzebub. "Would've had your arse handed to you if you didn't do what the Big Boss said. Seems to me that, with Aziraphale in charge, you've got the chance to actually change things Down Here. Do things differently. Less torture and terror. It might shock you to find out, but people tend to be more productive when you're, you know, _not_ threatening to rip out their innards... just a thought."

Beelzebub pressed their lips together, a strain about their eyes that spoke of stress. It was clear they were having massive problems stemming from the removal of their leader and the fallout of the lack of an apocalypse. And now they had to deal with the two of them and their infernal questions. "It izz not for me to decide what to change. It has always been this way." They looked away for one moment, as if debating with themselves, before begrudgingly looking to Aziraphale. "This is purely hypothetical but. What _would_ you change?"

Aziraphale looked thoughtful for a while. "You know... first I would try to find out what the people here actually would like to change. I know Crowley's perspective, of course, but I'm getting the feeling that he's not your typical sample of a demon. But one thing comes to my mind that I think might be appreciated here, and that Heaven doesn't have, either."

That seemed to pick Beelzebub's attention. "Yezzz?"

"I mean the concept of personal space," Aziraphale explained. "Every demon who wants it should have at least a little room that they could call their own and furnish it as they like with the certainty that nobody enters it without their consent. Probably there are some who like the crowded halls, maybe even with the faulty plumbing and lightbulbs, sure. You could leave a section in that state for them. But others might appreciate a choice about their surroundings... just a thought, really."

"Perzzonal zzzzpaze," repeated Beelzebub, with a wrinkled brow. "And how would that help? Only the demons with titles are allowed dwellings here, we can't be giving every low level imp a room of their own. They'll get ideazzz."

"What ideas?" Aziraphale asked. "That they don't need to focus all their attention on covering their back and can focus on work instead? That maybe they already have been punished for their choices by falling and don't need to be punished continuously for having less power than others, which isn't really a choice? I thought the Fall was about freedom and choices. Those reasons I respect. But if you fell for that just to have both taken from you by someone else, and there's nowhere lower to fall... I don't wonder if your people are frustrated."

"You know, angel," mused Crowley, "you've hit the nail on the head. It's never been about good and evil, really, has it? We all know that. It's only ever been about choices. I dunno about you, Lord Beelzebub, but I thought back when this whole rebellion thing started, we were doing it for something. We were sticking it to the man! Er, woman, er, sexless creator -"

Beelzebub growled. "If this rambling has a point, I suggest you get to it quickly before I lose my patience."

"Right er, the point _is_ ," Crowley flapped a hand about, "we were _supposed_ to get to make our own choices. But we're no more free now, than we were Up There. We just made our own rubbish version of Heaven, with the same bureaucratic nonsense. Instead of doing whatever the Almighty told us to do, we did what _Lucifer_ told us. And waddya know, we're still bloody _miserable_."

Beelzebub scoffed, "If we are miserable, then it is all _Her_ fault for casting us out! She turned us into monsters for daring to disagree with Her. Hell is not _supposed_ to be a utopia -"

"Why not?" interrupted Crowley. "Could be. Nothing saying it can't. If you ask me, you lot just perpetuate your own misery."

Beelzebub clenched their fists.

"Just imagine how it would feel to show Gabriel how much better Hell can be than the boring agoraphobic bureaucratic offices Up There," Aziraphale said innocently. "Because honestly, the bar is not that high..."

Beelzebub's eyes flashed, like light reflecting off a cat's pupils in the dark. "... It would be satisfying to wipe the smirk off his zzmug face..."

Aziraphale just smiled, letting the idea settle in.

Dagon watched that exchange with an expression as if she was seeing some familiar face, but unable to remember the name. But suddenly, her jaw dropped. "My Lord," she said, "did you notice what he just did? He tempted you… successfully..."

Crowley snorted, an impossibly proud grin blooming over his face. Aziraphale was really something, it was about time he got recognised for it.

Beelzebub's eyes widened comically, before narrowing. "Impossible! Angels don't tempt."

Aziraphale snorted. "Really? How long has it been, my dear?" he turned to Crowley. "Since the 11th century?"

"Sounds about right," answered Crowley, with a small, indulgent smile, "that's what, an entire millennium?"

Beelzebub looked between the two of them, growing increasingly irate. "What are you talking about."

"Doing temptations, of course," Aziraphale said. "Crowley was so kind to teach me how it's done around 1020, I think. Well, not kind, I suppose," he corrected himself, minding Crowley's reputation. "Really very evil of him, oh yes, corrupting an angel..."

Crowley winked at him, "I can't take all the credit. You took to it like a duck to... er... whatever it is ducks take to."

Beelzebub had frozen, a frown marring their forehead and the large fly atop their head buzzing its wings with renewed interest.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "To water, Crowley. Like a duck to water. If you would read more instead of watching the television all the time, you would really enrich your means of linguistic expression."

Crowley raised an eyebrow, teasingly. "Pfft. Says the angel who calls bicycles velocipedes…"

Dagon watched the exchange like a foreign movie with wrong subtitles, wondering what the heaven the actors were talking about.

"My Lord..." she leaned towards Beelzebub, "we need to do something about the situation in the sixth circle soon. Do you think we might..." she looked at Aziraphale and raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Beelzebub yanked their eyes away from the bickering pair. "Hmm. Perhaps you are onto something. It would certainly be a tezzzt of his leadership skills."

Dagon's smile was cruel, and had too many teeth. "Nothing to lose, right?"

Beelzebub levelled Aziraphale with a steely gaze. "It seems the chance has come for you to prove yourzzelf."

Crowley didn't like the sound of that, nor the way that the two demons' faces had suddenly darkened with shadows, their eyes glinting maliciously. He stepped a hair closer to Aziraphale's side. "Er, wassat then?"

"What do you think happens," Dagon said with her toothy grin, "when you take ten millions of battle-ready demons, eager for blood, encourage them with an awesome battle speech... and then tell them to return to their work?"

"They don't return to their work?" Aziraphale guessed, starting to see where this is going.

Crowley wasn't sure if it was possible for a fly to look smug, but that beast on Beelzebub's head was radiating something that made his demonic toes curl.

"Perhaps you are not so stupid after all," they said, icily. "I'm sure, as King, you must be more than capable of handling this little dizzpute?"

Aziraphale was fully aware that he was expected to fail. Something petty and stubborn in him wanted to prove them wrong, but he wasn't looking to commit a suicide when he just became free to do what he wanted, and especially not drag Crowley into such a situation. He wasn't sure what he was facing here. He looked at Crowley questioningly, knowing the demon is able to better judge the risks.

The thing about Aziraphale was, he often didn't know his own strength. Crowley was torn between the instinctive urge to keep the angel safe from any potential harm, and the utter, complete, _surety_ that Aziraphale could handle whatever a bunch of rowdy low-level demons could throw at him with ease. He probably wouldn't even scuff up his perfect manicure.

Crowley nodded at him, imperceptibly. He wanted to reach out and squeeze the angel's hand. He wanted to say _Listen to me, you daft sod. You've got this, you know you have. You're a clever old bastard, and they'll be sorry for ever underestimating you. And eh, what the Hell, if it all goes pear-shaped, I'll think of something to get us out of here. Always do._

But, well, he couldn't exactly say all that mushy stuff when his former bosses were looking at them with daggers in their eyes, it wouldn't do to show any weaknesses that could be exploited, so he settled for nudging the side of his boot against Aziraphale's shoe.

Aziraphale understood the subtle sign well. He smiled a little, and nodded. "Very well," he told Beelzebub, "I really should take the responsibility coming with the title. What can you tell me about the situation? And yes, I know you think I'll fail there, but I suppose you also want to deal with that problem and are not too eager to do it yourselves, so withholding any important information would be quite counterproductive."

Beelzebub looked a little taken aback, probably unsettled by the angel's twinkly-eyed smile in the face of certain danger.

"It izz simple," they explained, "those involved refuse to listen to our authority, and have resorted to brawling, property damage, and the like. Usually, we might encourage such behaviour, to let off steam. However, it izz clear that things are growing worse. Especially now that we have lost our esteemed ruler."

They grit their teeth, and looked away, begrudgingly. "I cannot say I fully disagree with their reasoning. They were promised a gloriouzz war, the destruction of all creation, a chance to finally defeat Heaven once and for all. Then you two showed up and _ruined everything_. In some ways it is fitting that you be the ones to fix this, as it izz entirely your fault," they glowered, eyes darkening. "If you need further information, Dagon has the particulars."

"I see," Aziraphale nodded. "We really do have a certain moral responsibility here. Lord Dagon, if anything helpful comes to your mind, we would be much obliged."

Dagon glanced at Crowley a bit uncertainly, as if wondering if the angel was serious or making fun of her. "You know the sixth circle," she shrugged. "Best fighters, but not too bright. Some don't even bother looking humanoid. There isn't much else to tell."

Aziraphale nodded. "Thank you anyway. Would you mind showing us the way, please?"

Beelzebub exchanged a look with Dagon, face remarkably placid. Then they turned back to Aziraphale, but it was impossible to glean what they were thinking. "We will both ezzcort you. I won't have you wandering around Hell cauzzing more trouble. Besides, I wish to see your... solution... with my own eyes."

"Thank you, I appreciate the escort," Aziraphale said. "I really don't want to cause some commotion by wandering around. But when we get there, I would appreciate it if you waited somewhere else. I'll call you when I'm done, if that's all right. I really hate to have someone looking over my shoulder when I'm trying to do something. Reminds me of Gabriel..."

Beelzebub made a disgusted face at the mention of being similar to Gabriel, but they were clearly unused to being dismissed. They huffed a breath out of their nose. "Fine," they agreed, shortly. "It doesn't matter, the outcome will be the same. You will be left alone to deal with the matter. However, if you fail to call us in a reasonable time frame, we will come to collect... what izz _left_ of you."

"Jolly good," Aziraphale smiled brightly and made a gesture towards the door. "After you..."


	3. Chapter 3

Beelzebub cast a long look over Aziraphale as they stalked past him and out of the room, their head held high. Dagon took up the rear.

"A proper escort, eh?" murmured Crowley, as they walked between the two demons, side by side.

Aziraphale smiled at him, but didn't speak much, wondering what they should do about the situation that a Prince of Hell found troublesome to deal with and if Crowley had some plan, since he had encouraged him to try pulling this off (realistically, the demon probably didn't, Crowley rarely had a plan, but somehow he always made things work at the end, so that was fine to Aziraphale. As long as Crowley was with him, they would figure something out).

Beelzebub led them to a dimly lit service lift that screeched when it started moving and the door didn't close properly. It took them down to the sixth circle. The noise and stench of sulphur carried to them even before they left the cabin.

* * *

Crowley didn't have a plan.

Which wasn't usually a problem, as he much preferred to wing things. Or, well, in Hell you were pretty much _forced_ to wing things, actually. You just had to react to whatever crazy bloody thing happened Down Here and hope you still had all of your limbs attached afterwards.

But in this situation, a plan would really have come in handy.

You see, it suddenly occurred to him that they were about to come face to face with a bunch of demons, who had, for the last six thousand years, been clamouring to rip all of Heaven's angels to shreds. And who had, recently, been _denied_ the chance to rip all of Heaven's angels to shreds. And who were, very soon, about to meet Aziraphale.

 _Oh, shit._ Crowley thought, inwardly panicking. _Ohhh, bollocks - whose stupid idea was it to just go in there and serve up Aziraphale on a silver platter?_

But then he looked over at the angel. He thought of being sheltered from the rain under a white wing. The angel had surprised him with his kindness back then, and had continued to do so ever since. Aziraphale was probably the only person able to pull something as mad as this off.

The lift door groaned open and revealed a dimly lit hall. It looked more like a coal mine than a basement. The noise and smells were stronger here, but the hall was empty, the fighting apparently focused in a different part of the place.

"Thank you for the escort," Aziraphale turned to Beelzebub politely, but with a firm note in his voice. "I think we can find the way from here."

Beelzebub appeared to look disinterested, as if escorting the angel had been a mild inconvenience. The only thing that gave them away was the large fly on top of their head, whose front legs were rubbing together in anticipation.

Aziraphale and Crowley stepped out of the lift. Beelzebub glowered at them before the door closed.

"For your sake," they said, darkly, "I hope you surprise uzz."

"I hope so, too..." Aziraphale muttered when the lift left. "Do you have any ideas, my dear?"

"Er," said Crowley, making a face, "was kinda hoping _you_ might have an idea, actually. Mine usually come around to bite me on the arse."

"Ah. Oh dear. Well, I was hoping you might have some backup plan at least. Know some way to get out of here if it goes wrong, for example." Aziraphale looked down, adjusting his vest and bow tie.

"Pfft, ' _course_ I've got a back up plan, always have something up my sleeve, don't I?" Crowley said. "Look, don't worry about getting out of there. From what I remember, there's a couple of hidden exit routes and if not, eh, I'll just grab you and we'll make a run for it. I can be pretty slippery when I need to be." He dared to put a hand on Aziraphale's upper arm, giving it a comforting squeeze.

The angel did not raise his gaze, keeping it on the ground. "Beelzebub was right, we really are responsible for this," he sighed. "We should make it better somehow, but... I'm afraid I've lost faith that talking to people can change things. Especially to people who want their war... And I'm not sure we'll even get a chance to talk, if they are already fighting."

"Mm. Might be a bit difficult. But most demons will respond to a display of power, if you're up for it. Just something a bit flashy, you know. Dazzle 'em a bit."

"Dazzle them. Yes, I've got that," Aziraphale murmured, but he was still looking somewhere at the level of Crowley's knees. "It's just that... I'm not sure about the talking part. Last time I tried to reason with someone that it's not necessary to fight... it didn't go too well. I tried to talk with Gabriel, I tried to talk with Metatron... and they were angels, not demons who have fighting as a hobby."

"Hey," Crowley said, gently, looking at Aziraphale over the top of his glasses. "You were trying to reason with people who were deaf to anything other than what they wanted to hear. And while it was an admirable thing to do, it was always going to end badly. S'not your fault they were ignorant twats." He gave the angel a small smile. "The thing is, these _aren't_ some stuck up higher ups that you need to convince, these are just your regular old demons. They're fighting because - well, they obviously enjoy it, but also - there's not much else for them to do now. Seems to me like they're... looking for a purpose."

"A purpose?" Aziraphale finally looked up. "Hmm... We have that in common, it seems." He looked thoughtful now, glancing towards where the noise was coming from. Then he smiled faintly. "Ready for a bit of dazzle?"

Crowley's answering smile was hopelessly fond, and he didn't even try to hide it. He pushed his glasses up his nose, and nodded. "Try not to blind me, eh?"

Aziraphale stole one more glance at Crowley for reassurance. Then he turned his eyes ahead and walked casually towards where the hallway mouthed into a larger space.

Aziraphale had seen a battlefield before. He had seen it many times, had followed the development of the human art of killing each other since Cain picked a sharp stone from the ground.

He had, however, never seen something like this. The biggest difference was, there were no sides in this fight. No _us_ and _them_. No obvious goal other than the fighting itself. There were weapons and claws and teeth, there was blood and pieces of rubble and things he did not wish to inspect more closely under the fighting demons' feet (or whatever substitute of those appendages they possessed).

He did not do anything. He just stood there, calm and quiet, waiting for the demons to notice his presence.

Crowley sidled up beside him, barely avoiding being hit by a flying projectile, and ever thankful for his serpentine spine and its malleability. He whistled lowly, "They're really going at it, aren't they? Woah!" They both ducked to avoid getting splatted by a large rock. "Er. Think you might have to announce yourself, angel. This lot are a bit single-minded."

"Well, _really_. It seems so," Aziraphale tut-tutted. "One would think that seeing an angel here would garner their attention, considering how they are fighting each other precisely because they were denied a fight with angels. Dear me. Time for something a little more showy..."

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. And then he transformed, letting his true form show.

There were shapes of light arranged in dimensions that the human mind was not meant to comprehend, and demonic one might also be a bit out of practice in that area. There were intersecting planes that didn't actually touch, and right angles that were nowhere close to 90 degrees. There was a core of light that seemed as hard as steel, and wheels of fire that turned around it in complicated patterns. There were wings and thousands of eyes and at the same time there was... not quite a face, but a feeling that made the form instantly recognisable as Aziraphale.

A halo shone above the entity, bright enough to cast sharp shadows behind the fighting demons. And above the halo, there was a crown. It seemed to be made of horns and fire, and it didn't feel holy, but neither did it feel evil. A voice boomed from below the crown, proclaiming the usual formulation an angel would use instead of a greeting when in such a form: "BE NOT AFRAID."

Crowley was distantly aware that, on some plane of existence, his mouth had probably fallen open. It tended to do that when he was utterly flabbergasted. However, he wasn't entirely sure what his body was doing at the moment, because his mind was a bit preoccupied by the staggeringly beautiful, completely mind-boggling form of his best friend.

Thing was, Aziraphale usually presented himself as a bit... twee. Soft. Plump. Mild-mannered. Bit dusty. Still beautiful, of course, but in a comfortable way. Anyway, the point was, Crowley tended to forget the angel's true nature.

He forgot that Aziraphale could be a bit bloody terrifying if he wanted to be.

"Fuck me," Crowley croaked, but couldn't hear himself through the sudden incessant ringing in his ears. He thought he could hear a few demons screaming, but that could have been his poor eardrums.

Actually, no, he was right the first time, there were screams, finding their way to the surface of a stunned silence. Some were horrified, sure, but others were enraged and blood-chilling, some even joyful for finally having a proper target. Some forms shimmered, as if intending to shift into a true form as well to even the playing field.

That was the last thing Aziraphale wanted, and so after his appearance served its purpose and got the demons' attention, he turned back into an old-fashioned bookseller. He dusted off his coat, adjusted his bow tie and casually avoided a spear flying in his direction.

"Now now, no need for that, my good gentlemen," he said in a stern tone usually reserved for customers in the bookshop. "Let us talk like civilized persons, shall we?"

An eager demon of a vaguely human shape that was closest to him clearly didn't want to talk like a civilized person and attacked with a nasty looking flail.

Aziraphale dodged and twisted the handle of the flail from the demon's hand in one almost subconscious movement, but in the corner of his eye he could see more of them getting ready to attack. Dazzle them, Crowley said, but his true form just served for getting their attention and was seen as a challenge. He needed another kind of show.

"Wait!" he exclaimed. "What's that behind your ear?" he asked the disarmed demon theatrically, producing a coin from the proximity of what looked like a chewed off organ of hearing.

Crowley would have slapped a hand over his own face in mortification if he had had the time, as it was, he barely managed to make a mad dash to the angel's rescue - positive that the idiot was about to get his face smashed in for stopping to perform some god awful conjuring trick in the middle of a vicious Hell fight.

Of all the _stupid bloody things - !_

But the demon, whose ear the coin had definitely _not_ come out of, sucked in a shocked breath that gurgled unpleasantly at the end, his black eyes as wide as dinner plates. What passed for his fingers, of which there were several, all tipped with black claws, came up to accept the shiny tuppence from Aziraphale's manicured hand. His expression was one of shock and awe.

That seemed to be the general consensus all round, actually. A few demons dropped their weapons, others clutched them tighter in bewilderment.

"Cor! Did you see that?!" yelled one, brandishing a pointed finger, "No 'orrible Heaven magic stench! He didn't use a miracle!"

"He's a witch!" cried another.

"It came right out of his ear!" insisted a demon with a spider on his head, "Not even _next_ to his ear, but _right out of it!_ I saw it! With my own ten eyes!"

Aziraphale smiled broadly at the appreciative audience. "Oh, and what do you have here?" he asked and produced another coin from the spider demon's nose, showing it to him with a fluorish. He didn't stop and pulled another one from a nearby ear, but then he was out of pocket change. "And for my next trick, ladies and gentlemen... and others... do any of the company here assembled possess such a thing about their persons as a pocket handkerchief?"

Even before finishing the question, he realized that the probability of any resident of Hell possessing an item of personal hygiene was extremely unlikely, and so he desperately looked towards Crowley.

For a moment, Crowley wished that the ground would open up and swallow him whole, but he knew that below this floor was the admin department and no one in their right minds would want to go there.

"Oi! Don't rope _me_ into this," he hissed with wide eyes, and then Aziraphale's gaze turned soft and beseeching and - oh, all right, all right, fine. _Fine!_

The demon grumbled and groused for all of three seconds, and then miraculously fished a black square of material out of a pocket that ceased to exist soon afterwards.

He handed it over, hoping Aziraphale knew what the bloody hell he was doing, because this was absolutely bloody bonkers and Crowley was sure he was about to die of secondhand embarrassment.

"Wonderful, my dear," Aziraphale smiled and took the handkerchief with a little pleased wiggle.

Hundreds of gazes were pointed at the piece of cloth. He could feel the suspense in the air. This was exactly the kind of audience he used to imagine when practicing his sleight of hand back in John Maskelyne's magic class and that real audiences somehow never came close to - until now.

"Now what do we have here? A simple handkerchief!" he exclaimed, but wasn't met with much understanding. "It's, uh, a piece of cloth you use to wipe your nose with... or put into your lap when eating... well, for our purposes, it's just a simple piece of cloth, see?" He demonstrated its simpleness by showing it from both sides. "Now, I'll need one of those coins back, thank you..."

Aziraphale took the coin from the spider demon and put it into the handkerchief. He folded it, then knocked the coin on a rock twice to demonstrate it's still there. But then he opened the handkerchief and it wasn't there! (It was in a little fold of the cloth.)

He grinned victoriously at the astonished audience. "Would you like to see more?" he asked hopefully.

Several of the demons nodded vigorously. Others were still too astonished to attack, which was positive, too.

"Well then for a further demonstration, ladies and gentlemen and others, I'll need my charming assistant," he turned towards Crowley with a broad smile, silently mouthing "magic props", since using an angelic miracle to summon them would ruin his image right now.

No. No, no no, no. _No._ Crowley tried to plead for mercy using nothing but his eyes, but Aziraphale either couldn't see the complete mortification through the frazzled sunglasses, or was choosing not to notice.

That _bastard_.

This was so degrading. They were celestial beings for Someone's sake!

But, for some strange and ineffable reason, it _did_ seem to be working. And Crowley _had_ said they would face Hell together. He just hadn't thought it would be like this. Nghhhh, sod it all.

Crowley warily stepped close, until their sides were almost flush together. If nothing else, being near to Aziraphale would mean he could grab the idiot faster when they inevitably needed to make their escape. But if the angel got that bloody rabbit involved again, he was scarpering.

Crowley flashed the angel a bright, false smile, like a knife edge catching the light. Oh, he'd get the angel for this later, mark his words. If they were still alive after this, that was.

"What do you want?" he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, grumpily, "a top hat with a hole in the bottom? Couple of balls and a cup? What's left of my poor dignity?"

"My magic box, under the coffee table," Aziraphale muttered back with the corner of his mouth while still showing the demons the empty handkerchief and almost accidentally dropping the coin from it. He added a little pleading pout toward Crowley.

Crowley sighed and gave in, because of course he did. He snapped his fingers. Aziraphale's accursed magic box popped into being, it had on its side in loopy script the ominous words _The Amazing Mr Fell._

"Ah, perfect," Aziraphale smiled. "Thank you, my dear. Here's your handkerchief," he returned it with the coin still inside, since he forgot to take it out. Then he rummaged in the box for a while, making some movement that looked suspiciously like stuffing something into his sleeves.

"And now..." he proclaimed, straightening again, "do you see this hat? Why! It's me old top hat. But, wait... what's this? Could it be our old furry friend... Harry the Rabbit?"

Harry the Rabbit scrunched its nose at being presented to a horde of demons. But it learnt long ago to deal with these episodes in exchange for life in the comfort of a pocket dimension within the magic box, with fresh food and water and an expanse of grass to hop on.

The demons stared at the fluffy animal that appeared from the empty hat. From the two of them, it certainly wasn't Harry the Rabbit who appeared more startled.

"'e made a living thing! Out of no'ere, and without an actual miracle!"

"Have you seen the crown on his true form?"

"Harry? Isn't that an occult name?"

 _Oh Christ,_ Crowley groaned, tilting his head all the way back until his spine popped audibly, _and there was that bloody rabbit again!_ It was a wonder the poor thing hadn't died of old age, from what he recalled, the angel had had it since the eighties.

More cringe-inducing parlour tricks followed.

Crowley couldn't believe the magic act was actually working, but it was. It really was. The demons looked on in awe of every dodgy feat of prestidigitation the angel performed, they didn't even seem to mind when he dropped a couple of metal rings. In fact they were now adamant that Aziraphale possessed amazing demonic powers the likes of which had never been seen before.

Mutterings of _King_ , we're starting to be heard among the denizens.

Aziraphale's smile got broader with the reaction of the audience to each trick. It may be fake magic, but it was not tied to him being an angel - it was his own magic, and being appreciated for it felt great to him, much better than being appreciated for any angelic miracle.

Occasionally he glanced at Crowley with a broad grin, as he wanted to share his joy.

"And now..." he started to introduce the next trick, but suddenly he paused. "Oh no... not again..." he muttered and pulled a dead dove from his sleeve.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

And then... cheers.

"Dead things! 'e can make dead things!"

The demons hooted with glee and stamped their feet (and cloven hooves).

Crowley watched them with disbelief. Well, what d'you know - they'd finally found something Aziraphale's magic act was good for. Namely, entertaining demons so they didn't try and rip your limbs off. He settled his gaze on Aziraphale, and the disbelief on his face melted into a look of quiet admiration. Not for the magic act, mind you - because he still stood by the fact that it was mindbuggeringly awful - but for the angel himself. Aziraphale was full of surprises. Should've guessed he'd charm them all. That was what he was best at, after all. Charming demons...

He leaned in to give Aziraphale a soft "Wahoo," in the ear, causing a colourful blush to spread across the angel's cheeks. Aziraphale looked positively giddy, and Crowley couldn't help the small smile that broke across his face at the sight.

Aziraphale was still embarrassed about the dove, but the genuine appreciation and applause was making him all warm inside. It was something Heaven never gave him, no matter how hard he tried to get their approval, leaving an empty space that he, subconsciously, hoped to fill when he took the magic classes. But it never worked - until now.

He smiled at Crowley and stashed the dead dove away before any of the demons would get some ideas about eating it. As he put his hand into the pocket dimension where the demons couldn't sense a miracle, he resurrected it. The dove seemed unphased by the experience, as if it were hardly the first time that it happened.

"Well," Aziraphale smiled at the demons, "you really are an amazing… ly loud audience." He caught himself in the last moment, remembering Crowley's warning about compliments. "I believe introduction is in order. I am Aziraphale, and as you might have noticed, I am an angel. However, I've terminated my association with Heaven, so you could say that I act as a free agent. Now, who do I have the pleasure to meet here?"

There was a great deal of murmuring at this. A free angel? Unheard of.

The spider demon was closest, and the arachnid on his head leant forward with beady inquisitive eyes. "Name's Ob," he said excitedly, "Smasher of Kneecaps!"

Demons never could resist giving themselves a flashy moniker, even a rubbish one. Crowley himself had been known as the _Serpent of Eden_ , or the _Tempter_ , for a long while, and now of course, thanks to recent events, he was _The Traitor_. When you lived with a shit tonne of other demons, for the sake of expediency, it was much easier to introduce yourself with a little summary of what you were best known for. Besides, even low level demons thought themselves worthy of a title, it made them feel special.

The first demon spoke with a voice like crushed glass. "I am Belphegor. Eater of... spleens."

Crowley grimaced a bit.

Another demon elbowed his way to the front, baring his teeth. "And I'm the demon known as Naberus! Devourer of Destruction!"

"That's not a thing," grumbled Ob, "we don't call him that."

"Oi!"

"The only thing he devours is his own toenails."

Demons, by and large, were a rather unsavoury group. Particularly when they spent a great deal of time in the bowels of Hell. More demons shouted their names, bizarre honorifics, and vile attributes, yelling and squawking over each other, in a veritable din. Crowley flicked his eyes over to the angel to see how he was handling it.

Aziraphale was doing his best to remember it all, nodding politely to every name as if he would be getting introductions in a gentlemen's club.

"A pleasure to meet you all," he said after a rather long time it took all demons to introduce themselves. "I must say that was a rather impressive brawl you have had going here as I arrived."

The demons brandished their weapons at the appreciation of their brawl, chests puffing out proudly.

"Was that a practice for Armageddon?" continued the angel, once the din had died down, "Because in that it was missing something, I fear."

"Eh?" said Ob. "What was it missing? Did it need more kneecap smashing? That's my specialty, that is."

"A valuable suggestion, Ob, but no," Aziraphale said. "It missed two things, actually. Sides and rules. It was a rather stylish all against all, I must admit that, but if you want to truly simulate Armageddon, there should be two sides. Not necessarily permanent sides, though. You can just make a temporary division for one match, and then mix it up in another one. And rules, rules give you a better goal and focus. You can avoid weakening yourselves with unnecessary injuries - because you know, Armageddon could happen at any time, and you wouldn't want to be caught with your trousers down, so to speak. Rules can prevent that, and will also clearly tell you which side has won, and when. Would you like to try it?"

There was a bit of grumbling about the mention of rules, but it seemed Aziraphale had had so much of an impact upon them that most of the demons were willing to look past that. Those that possessed tails flicked them curiously, those that had hooves pawed at the ground, and all of them crowded closer to the intriguing angel among them.

"It might be nice not to have to heal my horns every five minutes," muttered Neberus.

Belphegor tapped a black claw against his lip, contemplatively, "What kind of rules do you mean?"

"Just temporary ones for the match, of course, like the sides," Aziraphale explained hastily. "Humans have all kinds of rules for such occasions... like, for example..." he searched his mind for any team sports that he knew the rules of or participated in, "...uhm... maybe cricket?"

"Cricket..." pondered Ob, "like them bug things?" The spider on his head clicked its mandibles in anticipation.

"Well, actually, the name of the bug is derived from _criquer_ \- meaning to creak or crackle, while the name of the sport is derived from _criquet_ \- which means a goal post or stick," Aziraphale explained readily. "It's played with a ball and with bats - I mean sticks to hit things, not the animals - and a wicket, and... uhm... it's a bit complicated, but in principle..." He went on, explaining the rules of cricket to the demons as well as he could remember them, occasionally looking at Crowley to fill in the gaps.

Unfortunately, Crowley didn't know much about cricket. He wasn't one for attending sporting events. Well, unless he was there at a professional capacity - to encourage a bit of gambling, or stir up team rivalry, that sort of thing. As such, he couldn't help much with the technicalities of the game.

(And if he were perfectly honest, he kept getting distracted by the idea of Aziraphale sporting cricket whites and eating dainty cucumber sandwiches with his pinky extended.)

However, what Crowley _could_ do, and what he was pretty good at actually, was encourage the demons' natural competitive nature and love of violence.

He miracled up a cricket bat to show them, "All right, so if you're a batter, think of the ball as someone's skull that you really want to thwack across the field. And if you're a bowler, try and think of the wicket as someone's rib cage you want to break in the most painful way possible."

"Ooh, ooh! Or their kneecaps?" asked Ob excitedly.

Crowley shrugged, "Sure, yeah, whatever you want. Kneecaps, rib cages, faces of your superiors - imagine what you like, go wild."

The demons seemed to like this a great deal.

After a while, they were ready to start Hell's first cricket match. To compensate for a much greater number of players, Aziraphale set the game with more wickets, and a number of balls to match. It was a messy affair, but much more organized compared to the previous brawl. The demons seemed rather invested in the game, often asking Aziraphale if a dispute arose. He didn't really remember all the rules, but he made something up, adjusting the game for their needs.

Maybe Aziraphale didn't realise the magnitude of what he'd managed to accomplish in such a short period of time, but Crowley was completely floored by it.

There were _demons_ playing _cricket_ \- it was utterly, stupendously, ridiculous. He'd scarcely believe such a thing were possible if he hadn't witnessed it himself (and taught a few imps how to bowl without taking someone's eye out.)

And all right, yes, there were quite a few, er, _accidents_ , particularly in the beginning, mostly involving the bats - but hey, they were still learning.

"Well," said Crowley, feeling slightly choked, "you've only gone and bloody done it haven't you. Look at 'em, they're having fun. Without violence. Well, with a little violence. But not _excessive_ violence. And that's a great improvement, believe me - no beheadings or anything! Oof, Beelzebub's gonna be _pissed_."

As if the mention of their name summoned them, there was the screeching sound and a little ding of the lift.

Dagon rubbed her hands gleefully. "If what's left can fit in a box, we could send it to Gabriel," she grinned.

The fly on Beelzebub's head buzzed its wings, once, twice, in the smug expectation of what they were about to find, as they stepped out of the lift.

The expression on their face when they glimpsed the very first demonic cricket match in existence, could not be adequately described. Their eyes were wide and pale as they took in the organised chaos, the numerous balls flying about, the wickets splintering into bits, the demons cheering and brandishing their bats - and the angel and demon standing off to one side, the latter of which offered them a condescending wave, with a grin so large it threatened to split his face in half.

Beelzebub was almost completely still, deadly so. Their voice echoed loudly inside the large chamber.

"WHAT IZZ THE MEANING OF THIZZ?"

Aziraphale gave them a perfectly calculated innocent look. "Why, it's called cricket, my dear. It's not as complicated as it looks, I assure you. See, Ob there is a batter - and he's a natural, I must say - and Belphegor on the other side is a bowler. His goal is to hit the wicket... errr... ribcage with the skull - we adjusted some of the terminology, you see..."

Beelzebub seemed to be taken aback by this new development. They had probably expected to find an angel-shaped splat on the wall, or perhaps a singed hole in the ground, or even that the angel had fled in abject terror at the sight of so many bloodthirsty demons trying to maim each other.

Instead here was Aziraphale, who had somehow not only survived, but _flourished_.

The atmosphere down here had abruptly changed, from dank and depressive to something a little lighter, as if the thunder had finally broken and discharged some unknown pressure. Crowley could feel it tingling up his serpentine spine, and no doubt the Prince of Hell could feel the same thing.

It was almost... content.

"This is..." Beelzebub frowned, lips twisting in confusion, "a _game_?"

"Yes, a game. Or a sports match, to be more precise," Aziraphale said.

Dagon just now managed to close her mouth. "But... but he's an angel!" she pointed at Aziraphale. "You'll let yourselves be commanded by an angel?"

"He terminated his association with Heaven!" a tall, hooved demon exclaimed.

"Yeah, he's a free agent!" another demon added.

"He can do magic without miracles!"

"And he's got a crown on his true form, just like Boss..."

Crowley folded his arms and grinned smugly. Only Aziraphale could waltz into Hell and inspire such loyalty. The demons were rallying behind him, almost protectively.

Beelzebub held up a hand for silence. "Is this true?" they demanded, addressing the angel.

"Well, yes," Aziraphale nodded. "I didn't know about the crown, so I didn't get a chance to look at it properly yet, but when in true form, I can feel it's there. And the rest is true, as well," he shrugged nonchalantly.

Beelzebub scowled, mulling over the information. They dipped their head once, and it could have just been a nod of acknowledgement, but to Crowley, it almost seemed deferential. Or they were just thoroughly pissed off, it was hard to tell with the Prince. They lowered their voice, probably so the other demons couldn't hear their next words.

"How," they asked Aziraphale, flatly. "How did you get them to listen to you. To agree to this... _zportzz match_. Did you threaten them? Did you scare them into submizzion? _Tell me._ "

Aziraphale looked at the demons and took a moment to ponder the answer. "I think I impressed them. And then I just listened to them... and had some suggestions."

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes, disbelievingly. "Zuggestionzz. That can't be it. You must have done something. Entranced them. Extorted them. _Zzomething_."

Crowley raised an eyebrow, tired of their inability to see the angel for what he was. "Nope," he said, jovially, "actually, Aziraphale really _is_ just that clever. You wanted him to prove himself worthy of being King, and, hey," he waggled a hand at the gaggle of demons, "there's your proof."

"Give them a moment, my dear," Aziraphale said kindly. "They've only just started to consider the idea."

Crowley opened and closed his mouth for a bit before stopping and marvelling at the angel by his side.

"You really would be bloody _considerate_ , wouldn't you," he said, with all the sting of a butterfly. Then a small smirk wormed its way onto his face. "Come onnnn, lemme have a bit of fun, angel. I'll just rub their faces in it a _little_ bit. Please? If you ask me, they should be begging you to take up the throne. It hasn't been this quiet down here for centuries."

"Oh, well... if you insist, my dear. But only a little, because they have been rather ghastly to you," Aziraphale said because secretly, he agreed with Crowley and felt rather pleased with himself for succeeding where he was expected to fail.

"Knew you had it in you," said Crowley with a wink. "So," he addressed a Beelzebub and Dagon who had been watching the exchange, faces conflicted. "Waddya say? I think an apology is in order."

"We are _demons_ ," Dagon sneered. "We don't apologize. Would be a crazy world, if demons apologized. But... uhm... wouldn't you like to pay a visit to the fourth circle as well?"

"Maybe," Aziraphale smiled pleasantly. "As a king, I would be pleased to meet my subjects."

Beelzebub hummed, which sounded like a swarm of inquisitive bluebottles. "Another demonstration of your... _unorthodox methods_ will be needed, to ensure this wasn't a fluke."

Crowley rolled his eyes at that, but the Prince wasn't finished.

"Perhaps," they commented, mildly, "you are not as uzelezz as we thought."

And that was as close to remorse as they were ever going to get, so Crowley counted it as a win.

"Thank you. How terribly kind of you," Aziraphale said with a pleasant smile, pretending he didn't know what such a phrase could do to a demon.

Beelzebub winced.

"By another demonstration, do you mean that I should solve more of your problems for you?" Aziraphale continued. "I'm dreadfully sorry, but I'm not in the mood for that right now. If you'll excuse me, I'm going home to have a nice dinner. If I feel like it, I might come tomorrow, to check how the lads are progressing with cricket," he said more towards some of the demons who were listening with an expression of kids who were told they need to leave the playground soon, than towards Beelzebub.

 _Oohooo_ , thought Crowley with no small amount of glee, there was the bastard he loved.

Beelzebub looked oddly impressed at the angel's audacity. "These are _your_ problemzz," they insisted, "as King of Hell, it is your duty -"

"Oop!" said Crowley, pointing a finger at the Prince, "Gotcha. So you admit he's the King then?"

Beelzebub frowned, clearly uncomfortable. A few demons hollered their support from behind them, clacking together bits of broken wickets and making quite a racket. Beelzebub exchanged a quick look with Dagon. "Technically -"

"And as _King_ ," Crowley continued, "he's free to do whatever he likes, whenever he likes." He turned to Aziraphale, bowing his head slightly without a hint of mockery. "Hopefully with me? I'd be honoured if you would allow me take you to dinner, your majesty. Or we could get a takeaway," he amended, knowing Aziraphale might be tired, "or you could tell me to bugger off, that too. Whatever you fancy."

"Oh, lovely. The takeaway certainly sounds tempting, my dear," Aziraphale smiled, ignoring Beelzebub but still subtly giving Crowley the temptation credit. "That Indian place on the corner delivers a scrumptious coconut fish curry with fresh naan. See you later," he waved to the demons. "And Neberus, remember you are not supposed to hit the ribcage with the bat, you should protect it. And that means hitting the skull, not the bowler, right, Durfag?"

The demons nodded at him eagerly, a few bats cracked in half as they swung them with ruthless efficiency to demonstrate just how much they'd learned.

Various farewells were yelled at the angel, and all contained some variation of the word _King_. Though, Crowley didn't think _Your Infernal Lowness_ was an accurate descriptor, but hey, they could work on it. Some of the demons got halfway through a title and then got confused.

"All hail the devourer of - er... curry?"

"He who is called the - um..."

" _The Great Beast!_ Uh..." Crowley snickered at that one, and Ob scrambled to correct himself, "Great Magician...?"

The demons looked at each other.

"King!" They decided. "All hail the King!"

Beelzebub took one single step backwards.

Aziraphale waved to the demons again, and then took the lift up together with Crowley, leaving Beelzebub to wait for the cabin to return.


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, that went rather well, didn't it?" Aziraphale asked Crowley when they were alone in the lift.

Crowley couldn't help the absurd grin that spread over his face. He snorted, "You... I can't _believe_ you..." words failed him as he leant back against the lift wall and snickered with undisguised delight, revelling in the moment. "You beautiful bastard."

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, but the corners pointing upwards and the blush spreading on his cheeks showed clearly enough that he was suppressing a rather proud smile. And when the lift stopped at the floor leading to the main entrance with escalators, he walked confidently, as if the place would belong to him - which, technically, it did.

The Bentley sat waiting for them, with one tyre mounting the curb. Crowley stepped ahead to open the door for Aziraphale before heading to the driver's side. Luckily the earlier rain had petered off and in its place was a warm watery sunshine.

Crowley was still grinning from ear to ear, as they hurtled through London to the bookshop, recounting little bits to the angel that he'd found particularly amusing. "Thought you were a goner, and then you whipped out that bloody coin! -" "- Absolute sodding mayhem -" "- And the look on Lord Beelzebub's face! Pffffft."

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale nodded a bit absently, despite still blushing a little. "Just watch the road, please... that's a one-way street!"

Crowley gave a good-natured eye roll at that. "Should've known, King of Hell, and you're _still_ going on about bloody road safety. You know, you're allowed to be a bit of a rebel now, it's part of the job description. Anyway," he swung the steering wheel to the right, gleefully, "S'fine, s'just a shortcut."

Aziraphale gripped the edge of the seat. "Oh please..." he muttered, "did you expect I would somehow _magically_ start to enjoy your driving when I became King of Hell? Oh, and what did you think about my magic performance, by the way?"

Crowley took his hands off the wheel to waggle them about in annoyance. "It was, y'know, a _thing_ that happened," he grumbled, well aware the angel was proud of himself, and being a bit proud of him too. "An awful, awful, thing," he amended, because he didn't want Aziraphale getting any ideas. "What. Did you think I'd change my mind about your sleight of hand, just 'cause you saved the day with it? Saved our lives? Made a bunch of angry demons happy for the first time in their miserable existences? Pfffft. Nope. Not me. Especially not after you roped me into it. My revenge will be _swift and merciless._ "

Aziraphale smiled smugly with one corner of his mouth, but with the other corner he muttered: "Just keep your hands on the wheel, please." He leant back in the seat, resigning to Crowley's driving as some of the tension from the day finally dissipated from his features.

Crowley wanted to ask Aziraphale all sorts of things. The most pressing questions being, what the angel thought of the maddest day of their lives thus far (Crowley hadn't thought there'd be anything that could top Armageddon, but hey, he'd been proved wrong), and also, if Aziraphale thought Beelzebub was gonna pop round and strangle them any time soon.

However, a quick glance to his left stayed his tongue. Aziraphale looked thoroughly wrung out.

Nah. All that bollocks could wait. Best get the angel fed first. Then once he'd settled down into a nice comfy armchair, Crowley could ply him with a large glass of brandy.

They'd had one of those days.

They got to the bookshop without further talk and Aziraphale opened the door for Crowley as he invited him in. He sighed contentedly when he closed them again. "It's a bit noisy down there, isn't it?" he asked Crowley rhetorically. "No wonder everyone is so jumpy..."

Crowley shrugged noncommittally, fishing his mobile out of his pocket and putting it to his ear to order the takeaway before they forgot about it in favour of getting drunk. He didn't know the number, but it dialled anyway. He rattled off Aziraphale's requested fish curry and naan bread, with the phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. "You want them samosa things?" he asked the angel, rubbing his face with one hand as if he could scrub off his skin. Being in Hell really took it out of you. "Eh, what the hell, yeah, throw 'em in. And that dip. The yellow one. Delivery. Yep. Ta."

The prospect of the meal that he craved since about passing the fourth circle of Hell lifted Aziraphale's spirit considerably. He chuckled suddenly. "Beelzebub's face when you caught them admitting that I'm King," he snorted. "Priceless. It would pair well with red, I believe. How about..." he rummaged in his liquor closet for a while with the unmistakable sound of bottles being shifted and clinking on each other. "...ah-ha! Casillero del Diablo!" he chuckled again, waving the bottle in front of Crowley's face.

Crowley barked a laugh at that, the absurdity of the day finally catching up to him. "Jesus Christ, angel," he slumped dramatically on the sofa, "did all that actually happen or have I finally lost my marbles?"

Aziraphale hummed softly and poured the glasses. He gave one to Crowley and then sank into his favourite armchair, raising the other one in a salute. "It _did_ feel rather absurd, didn't it? A bit like dear Nostradamus's quatrains. Much better than the reports to Heaven, though."

Crowley drained his glass of wine, eagerly, hoping it would take the edge off. It was a bit bizarre going from the heightened senses of Hell, to the quietude of the bookshop. Ngghh, he wanted to rest his head on one of Aziraphale thighs and stay there for the rest of time.

Er, forget that last bit, he didn't mean that.

"Mm," the demon pondered, sprawling out like a cat, "well, no more reports for you, eh? You're your own boss now. With _underlings_ and everything."

"I'm still not 100% sure about that," Aziraphale said, looking into his glass. "What do you think would happen, would we go there tomorrow? It feels like we managed to bluff them just because they were surprised and taken aback."

"Pffft. Surprised? Do you know how hard it is to get demons to do _anything_? You achieved the impossible back there, angel. They aren't surprised, they're shaken to the bloody core."

"So... you think it will last?" Aziraphale asked, cautiously. "Is there actually a realistic possibility I would be accepted as a King of Hell?"

Crowley looked at Aziraphale over the top of his sunglasses, eyebrows raised incredulously. "Yes. Of _course_ yes. What are you even - you already _have_ been - Beelzebub said it themselves. "

"I know. Silly me..." Aziraphale murmured into his glass, swirling the wine around but still not taking a sip. "I didn't mean accepted but... well... _accepted_. Not as a King, but... as me. Whatever happened down there, it was rather nice. I just wondered if it could last, you know."

He shook his head then, aware of his habit to overthink things both before and after they happen.

"Sorry for being a downer, we did really well, didn't we, my dear boy? We should celebrate."

Crowley blinked at him. "Aziraphale," he said gently, "You don't... you're..."

He manoeuvred himself upright, serious for once.

"You do realise that you - an _angel_ \- just won over a bunch of _demons_ with nothing but your wit, charm, and penchant for terrible magic tricks, right? They should've tried to kill you, and instead they - look, for Christ's sake, they're down there, right now, having a civilised- _ish_ game of bloody cricket. Because of _you_. Because they looked at you and saw someone worth listening to."

Crowley blew out a breath through his nose, remembering the demons crowding around the angel like a bunch of lost ducklings. Well, like a bunch of lost ducklings who had violent tendencies and too many teeth... did ducklings have teeth...? Probably not. What with the bill and everything. He stared into his own empty wine glass. If they were anything like him, they wouldn't let the angel go now that they had a taste of his unique brand of kindness, understanding and bastardry. Just, _fwoosh_ , that shit went straight to the soul. Nope, the angel was stuck with them now.

"I know it's early days yet, but... they really latched onto you. Just as you were. They didn't do it out of fear, or because of your new crown. They did it 'cause you made them feel like they were _worth something_."

Crowley swallowed. He felt like he'd just bared his heart, and made grabby motions for the bottle of wine before he could further incriminate himself.

Aziraphale took the bottle that he, as a host, placed within his reach. He leaned over the table and refilled Crowley's glass, pouring the wine carefully. He watched the ruby stream, trying to focus his thoughts with it. "But of course they are," he murmured, not meeting Crowley's eyes, as if afraid that he would reveal too much, as well. "It's sad if they don't see it."

When the glass was full, he withdrew the bottle. But with the movement, a drop that was hanging from its mouth fell on Crowley's hand. Aziraphale reached for it absently and started wiping it with his finger. He froze in the middle of the movement as he realized what he was doing.

And then the doorbell rang.

Crowley sprung upwards like a jack in the box, nearly spilling wine all over himself.

"Food!" he shouted, completely unnecessarily, and then he scarpered to the door, hand tingling where the angel had touched it so gently.

He was both impossibly grateful for the distraction of the takeaway arriving, and unreasonably vexed at being interrupted. Ffsssss. He was being a right idiot. The last thing Aziraphale needed right now was a lapful of clingy demon, Crowley reminded himself sternly. The angel needed a good meal and a friendly ear. That was all.

The poor delivery driver didn't know what to make of the red-faced creature with the sunglasses, who growled at him through pointed teeth, double-checked the bag for the yellow dip, and shoved a ridiculously large tip into his hands before mumbling out a "ta very much", and slamming the door in their face.

When Crowley turned back into the bookshop, Aziraphale was out of his sight, but the clinking of porcelain from the little kitchen in the back gave away his location. Eating out of the delivery box? Unthinkable... We are not savages, Crowley.

It took a while longer for the angel to return than it would be necessary for collecting the tableware, and when he did, he looked fully collected (with the exception of a very faint blush at the top of his ears). He put the fine plates and bowls on the table, smiling brightly at Crowley - or maybe at the delivery boxes the demon was holding.

The takeaway was doled out, and the inviting smells of heady spices and warm bread filled the air. Crowley absently nibbled the corner off a samosa that Aziraphale had thrust upon him. But the real joy to be found in the food was in watching Aziraphale eat it. The little hums of happiness, the relaxing of tight shoulders, the content smile. Crowley lapped up the sight, as eagerly as the angel mopped up the last of his curry with a soft piece of naan.

The sense of taste always helped Aziraphale to still his thoughts running in all directions, and focus them on the present. "Hell does make one hungry," he said as he was dabbing on the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "If we are going to go there tomorrow, I'll pack some sandwiches and shortbread."

Crowley nearly inhaled the rest of his samosa at that. "You're gonna take a _picnic_ down into Hell?"

"I don't see why not?" Aziraphale looked at him with raised eyebrows. "If I get peckish, why couldn't I have a picnic in a place I'm supposed to be a boss of?"

"Er, why not, yeah, didn't mean you _shouldn't_ , just..." Crowley couldn't get his head around the idea of Aziraphale settling his soft bottom down on a tartan blanket, eating dainty morsels, and wiggling in contentment - while _inside_ the very bowels of evil itself.

It was so incongruous, Crowley didn't know whether it was funny or just bizarre. But hey, if Aziraphale could get the demons to play cricket down there, he supposed a picnic shouldn't be that surprising.

"Not the most idyllic of picnic spots, is it?" the demon settled on, "Would've thought the sulphur smell might put you off your sandwiches. Well, unless they're egg, I s'pose..."

"You are absolutely right, I should make some egg sandwiches! Oh, and I'll also take that delightful Olomouc curd cheese! You can't get it in any restaurant because of the smell, but the taste is just scrumptious, I assure you."

Crowley couldn't help the bemused smile that twitched at his lips. The angel was really something.

Many beings, when confronted with Hell's particularly pungent aroma, would probably try to get rid of the offending scent, and when they inevitably failed, they'd settle for sticking some bungs up their nostrils. You see, Hell was full of bubbling sulphur pits and filthy unwashed demons. There was no getting away from the smell, it infiltrated every nook and cranny of the place.

But Aziraphale knew that, and instead, he chose to take advantage of the unique situation, using the smell to cover up the scent of his odoriferous foods of choice.

Crowley sipped at his wine, hoping it would cover up his obvious infatuation.

"So, I'm going to make the sandwiches tonight, and reread some Machiavelli, I think. You are welcome to stay, if you would like. Or maybe you would prefer to get some rest in your own bed? I don't want to keep you from it..." Aziraphale said, looking away, trying to not influence Crowley's choice by his own preference.

"Er," said Crowley, as nonchalantly as he could, while not feeling very nonchalant at all, "if it's all the same to you, angel. I might... stick around for a bit. Drink your wine. Make a nuisance of myself. You know. Could even try my hand at making the sandwiches, if you want... I'm good with eggs. It's a snake thing."

All right, fine, so he sounded a bit desperate. There was something hot and protective coiling around in his gut that he did his best to blame on the samosas. It wasn't as though he thought Aziraphale was in any immediate danger, and Aziraphale could easily handle himself if he was, so there was no real reason to stay.

He just... wanted to.

"Or you can kick me out," he amended, lightly, "don't mind, up to you, whatever."

"Oh, excellent, you can stay of course," Aziraphale smiled brightly. "Would you mind getting the bread and cooking the eggs? I'll just pop over to Czech Republic for the curd cheese, be back in a jiffy."

"Wha - oi - wait a sec -" spluttered Crowley.

But it was too late, the angel had disappeared with a wink of his eye.

"Oh, right. Fine. _Fine_ ," Crowley grumbled to the empty bookshop. "I see how it is. _I'll just pop over to the bloody Czech Republic_ ," the demon mimicked in a high-pitched voice that sounded exactly like the angel, thank you very much, " _you go make me a sandwich._ "

He sulked off to the kitchenette in the back room with a scowl. Wishing there was a ficus he could shout at.

"Ffff, the _nerve_. And all right, yes, technically speaking, I did offer, but still. S'rude, innit. Well. I'll show him. I'll make the best sodding egg sandwich he'll ever eat! So _there_. That'll teach him..."

Crowley might've fibbed a bit about being good with eggs. He was very good at _swallowing_ them. But less competent at anything else to do with them.

Google could help. He typed 'how to boil an egg' into his phone, feeling a bit like an uni student.

The angel would be lucky if there was any of the poor kitchenette left by the time he was done with it.

* * *

"A jiffy" lasted for about an hour and half before Aziraphale returned with a shopping bag. "I got the Olomouc curd cheese," he announced cheerfully from the front of the shop, "including some extra in case there are any especially annoying customers. And I also got some fresh Moravian kolaches and Pilsner Urquell in case we would feel like having some beer." As he was talking, he walked towards the kitchenette. "Crowley?"

" _Angel?!_ " came the startled response.

An ominous and unmistakable whiff of sulphur wafted from the kitchenette as Aziraphale neared. Followed by the frenzied clanking together of several pots and pans, and what sounded like something coming rapidly to the boil and spilling over.

" _Shitshitshitshit_ \- er. Don't come back here!"

"... Do you need any help, my dear?" Aziraphale asked a bit suspiciously, but he didn't enter the kitchen, since Crowley asked him not to.

Crowley poked his head out of the doorway. His red hair was dishevelled, and there was a dark streak of soot across his forehead. He was also, very noticeably, blocking the entrance to the kitchenette where a little smoke was beginning to drift out and coil about his ankles.

"Nope! Everything's - it's all good, perfect actually, more than perfect. So there's no need to come in. 'Cause I've got it all under control. In fact -"

Crowley ducked back inside, there was a bit more clattering, and muffled swearing, and then he reappeared with a grin.

"- _Behold_ ," he held up one perfectly oval, gleamingly white, recently peeled egg, "my greatest creation." He leant against the doorjamb, obviously extremely proud of himself. "Can I hear a wahoo?"

Aziraphale put his shopping bag on the armchair and came closer to take a better look. "It's… an egg," he said a bit faintly, unsure of the significance. "Uhm... well done. Wahoo. Wait... your greatest creation? Just to be clear... there _was_ a chicken involved in creating this... creation, right?"

"What - what are you - of _course_ there was a chicken involved! I didn't just pop one out myself, did I? I meant, I spent a great deal of time _boiling_ this bloody egg, it's perfect in every way, ehffff - you're missing the point. Do you have any idea how complicated it was?"

Crowley flapped a hand into the kitchenette, with a pout.

"I tried it _Delia's_ way, with the cold water thing, didn't bloody work, then I did the method on _BBC Food_ , and that was bollocks too, I even tried one of those stupid blogs where you have to scroll through someone's life story for twenty minutes - complete rubbish! But I did learn a lot about their cat, Hector. The rascal. Anyway. All of them had the dreaded grey yolk ring of doom. So then, _then_ , I tried to just heat them up with a bit of hellfire and they, well, might've," he gestured, losing a bit of steam, voice getting quieter, "exploded. A bit. Point is, this egg is the result of over an hour of hard labour and critical thinking."

Aziraphale needed a moment to process that. "Grey yolk ring of doom... and hellfire... in my kitchen." He looked at Crowley, and slowly the puzzlement in his face turned into an expression of fondness. "My dear... you researched how to best cook an egg for me? I must say I'm touched. Why don't you pick us something to drink and pour yourself a glass? I'll take care of the rest... assuming the kitchen is safe now?"

"Oh _shit_ , yeah, no, it's not dangerous in there. I swear."

If Crowley was honest, the hellfire had been completely accidental - he'd been a bit angry after the first dozen eggs had failed, especially after shouting at them hadn't done the trick - and rather than being an actual flame, it had been more of a controlled explosion inside the egg shell. So, big mess, but not harmful.

Also, he had his suspicions that Aziraphale's new crown offered the angel immunity from all Hell-related injuries.

But still. It didn't stop the guilt churning in his gut. Which got worse when he remembered what he'd actually been supposed to be doing.

"The sandwiches!" Crowley raked a hand through his hair, eyes wide. "I was supposed to be making sandwiches, wasn't I? _Bollocks_."

He'd been so focused on boiling the perfect egg that he'd forgotten _why_ he was doing it. The antsy, nervous feeling from spending the day in Hell and then having Aziraphale up and disappear on him had resulted in him nearly decimating the kitchen with single minded focus.

"Ssssssss. Might've got a bit carried away. Sorry. Just. Here," he gave Aziraphale the egg, brushing his fingers lightly. "I'll go clean up."

Aziraphale took the egg and held it like something precious. "It's quite all right, Crowley... I only asked you to get the bread and boil the eggs, not to make the sandwiches. Because you said that eggs were your specialty? I admit, I may have misunderstood that part. Dear me, what sort of a host would I be, if I asked you to make all of the sandwiches? I wanted to make them. Please, don't bother yourself, you are my guest. I'll get the kitchen in order in no time." He made a gentle shooing motion with his hand. But then a thought seemed to cross his mind. "Or," he looked at the demon tentatively, "we could do it together. Just if you would like to."

"Psh," said Crowley, using a long finger to push his glasses up his nose, so the angel couldn't see his eyes. "Yeah, all right then. Guess you could use my _expert_ culinary skills..."

They entered the kitchen, which was covered in bits of jagged egg shell, smatterings of yolk, and globules of barely congealed egg white. Not to mention the several towering piles of saucepans, and one very disgruntled hen.

"Er... on second thoughts, might be best if you took the lead," Crowley amended, snapping his fingers to get rid of the worst of the mess, "where'd you want me?"

Aziraphale summoned a bit of lettuce and gave it to the chicken. Then he pushed some pots aside to make place on the counter and looked at Crowley. "Well, I suppose a bit of cheating wouldn't matter. Could you summon the sandwich bread? You know, the sourdough one. I'll just multiply the egg."

Crowley summoned a sourdough loaf from the bakery down the street that Aziraphale liked to frequent. The bread was still warm and the crust crackled pleasantly under his fingers. He slapped it down onto a chopping board and sawed off a few slices to show how very competent he was at this whole cooking thing.

Meanwhile Aziraphale did a simple miracle of multiplying eggs. He remembered it being a favourite of Jesus, so that people could have a picnic while listening to him. He usually did it with bread and fish, though.

Aziraphale prepared all the ingredients on the counter and gave another leaf of lettuce to the chicken.

He did not usually cook. He enjoyed the rituals of ordering meals in restaurants, the scripted polite interactions with the waiters and all the ambience going with it. But making sandwiches was a ritual on its own, a bit like packing Christmas presents. There were carefully arranged ingredients and wrappings involved, and a certain way of fitting it all into a picnic basket, and Aziraphale enjoyed the preparations as much as he enjoyed a good meal. And now he was letting Crowley inside that little ritual, giving him small tasks that were rather fool-proof and didn't mess with his system.

Of course, Aziraphale had somewhat underestimated Crowley's appetite for mischief-making.

The demon didn't dare mess with the _actual_ sandwich-making, because Aziraphale was obviously enjoying himself immensely, and was meticulous in his methods.

But that didn't mean Crowley couldn't have a bit of fun on the side.

"Right," the demon said, brow furrowed in concentration, "I've sliced the bread, and buttered one side, now... just what do you want me to do with this?" He held up a poor, rather fluffy, quail that hadn't been there three seconds previous. "Shall I bung it over there with the rest of the poultry?"

Crowley inclined his chin to the corner of the small kitchenette. The aforementioned chicken had been joined by three other hens that were clucking about and fighting over a piece of lettuce, there was also a small white duck that had plonked itself down and taken a nap, and one very confused peacock.

What? The chicken had looked lonely. He wasn't a _monster_.

And maybe the angel would like a choice of different eggs.

Aziraphale just gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, do that, please. And give them some corn, would you?"

Crowley winked and gently set the quail down with its brethren, chucking a bunch of corn in their general direction, which the birds pecked at with wild abandon. "Anything else I can do?"

There really wasn't, but Aziraphale was aware of the dangers of having a bored demon around. "Well... hm... would you mind picking some wine that goes well with egg sandwiches and Olomouc cheese?" he asked, absently miracling the quail's feathers to a more healthy and shiny state than the one they were in when it arrived. "And then you could return our feathery friends home... or somewhere where they will be well cared for."

"Oh, fine," Crowley said, with a sigh, "I s'pose you're right." Then he addressed the assembled mismatched flock, "Come on you lot, you've outstayed your welcome. You've had your lettuce, now sod off. Don't want you eavesdropping on us. Especially _you_ ," he narrowed his eyes distrustfully at the sleeping duck, who had its head tucked under one wing and appeared to be deeply asleep.

But that's just what it wanted you to think. Crafty little bugger.

In the next instant, the birds were gone, leaving nothing but a few downy feathers. Crowley prowled off to where the angel kept his best wine.

Aziraphale finished and packed the sandwiches quickly without the distraction of random poultry appearing in his kitchen.

"I wanted to read a bit," he told Crowley when he took the chosen wine from him and put it into the picnic basket. "Would you maybe like to take a nap on the sofa? I can make it bigger, if you want."

Crowley stretched his spine like a cat. "Mmff, a nap sounds ideal... you'll, uh -" _be all right by yourself, won't you? Wake me if you need me_ , "- have to put up with my snoring. Being in Hell, gets me all congested. Something to do with the fumes, I think."

"Oh. No problem, my dear," Aziraphale said, miracling the sofa into something more spatial but keeping the comfortable feel of the well-worn piece of furniture. Then he reached into one of the bookshelves, following some system that only he understood, and carefully picked the first edition of Machiavelli's Prince.

Crowley sprawled onto the newly accommodating sofa face-first, groaning loudly. His sunglasses dug painfully into his nose and he shifted around for a moment, getting comfortable, before tossing the eyewear onto the coffee table. He put a hand over his face. "I could sleep for a week... you know, you should try it sometime. Bit of a kip, do you good."

"Hm. I might give it a try at some point," Aziraphale said noncommittally as he sat down into the armchair and opened the book.

Crowley closed his eyes and listened to the comforting sounds of the bookshop, the little creaks of the old wooden bookcases, the flick of Aziraphale's deft finger as it turned a page, the quiet hum of the traffic outside.

In his head swirled a myriad of thoughts.

He fidgeted, rolled over, ended up upside down, turned over again, then opened his eyes and huffed a breath through his stuffy nose.

Aziraphale looked up from his book at Crowley. "Anything wrong, dear?"

Yes. Lots of things. Where to bloody start? The day had been full of juxtapositions that Crowley still couldn't seem to wrap his head around. He turned to look at the angel, with an eyebrow raised, that clearly said, _really, you're really asking me that after the day we just had?_

Aziraphale was just sitting there, calmly, with a book in his lap, as if everything was completely bloody normal.

Crowley softened at the gentle sight. "You all right, angel?" he asked.

To Aziraphale's credit, he took some time to consider the question instead of giving an automatic polite reply. "I guess?" he said finally. "I mean, it's all rather strange, and if I believe that it could actually work, it's such a huge responsibility... but it feels right, somehow. Much better than working for someone who doesn't care, or than being purposeless. What about you?"

Crowley was quiet for a long moment, trying to wrangle his thoughts into a coherent sentence.

"Pfff. Yeah, m'fine, I'm always fine. Adaptable, that's me."

He closed his eyes. The thing was, Crowley wasn't exactly sure of his place in all of this. He didn't have a fancy title, or a crown, he didn't have any ties to Hell at all, besides being hopelessly besotted with its new King. Don't get him wrong, there was no way he was going to leave the angel's side, he knew that much - he'd stay as long as Aziraphale would have him.

It was just that... would Aziraphale even need him? The angel had blossomed in his new role, he was _King_ for Christ's sake, and what did Crowley have to offer in return? Bugger all, that was what. He couldn't even make a bloody egg sandwich.

Aziraphale was still watching him with concern. "Of course you are adaptable, my dear. Admirably so. But still... it must be hard going back there, isn't it? If I had to go back to Heaven again, and deal with Gabriel on a daily basis, I wouldn't be too enthusiastic about the prospect, either. But I would go with you, if you somehow became a boss of the place... It's a rather absurd idea, but not more unlikely than what actually happened."

Aziraphale thought for a moment. "Of course, you wouldn't be King, that would be rather blasphemous. More like a majority shareholder in a board of directors. I'd actually love to see Gabriel's face after getting such news, even if seeing him gives me a headache. But I would still hate the place, I think, unless it changes considerably. Or I'm just projecting, maybe. In that case, I apologize. If you can't sleep though, I could make us hot cocoa... or whiskey, if you prefer... and maybe read aloud?"

Crowley nodded, his throat feeling tight. He should have known that the angel would be so understanding. Even after the day Aziraphale had, he was still offering Crowley comfort. "Yeah. Thanks. I think I'd like that."

Aziraphale got up from the chair, carefully put a hand-painted bookmark between the pages of the book and disappeared in the kitchen. He returned soon with two angel-winged cups of hot cocoa in and gave one to the demon. By the smell of it, there was also a generous dose of brandy in the drink.

Crowley warmed his hands on the cup, a smirk curling at his lips at the sight of the ceramic angel wings. He wasn't usually one for hot drinks, unless it was coffee brewed darker than his soul, but the brandy was definitely appreciated. And now, he got to indulge in the sight of Aziraphale blowing gently on the surface of his own hot chocolate with pursed lips, before taking a cautious sip. It did wonders to calm the demon's thoughts.

Aziraphale then put the cocoa aside and opened the book again. He turned it to a different page than the bookmark was, though. He started reading there, in a low and calming voice.

_"A prince, therefore, being compelled knowingly to adopt the beast, ought to choose the fox and the lion; because the lion cannot defend himself against snares and the fox cannot defend himself against wolves. Therefore, it is necessary to be a fox to discover the snares and a lion to terrify the wolves..."_

Crowley drank his hot chocolate and listened. He decided not to comment on Aziraphale's particular choice of literature, but let the gentle cadence of the angel's soothing voice lull him into a doze.

Aziraphale lowered his voice, but he continued reading even after Crowley dozed off. You could count on humans to have a book with advice for everything, although if you wanted advice for ruling as a monarch, you had to reach for it across a few centuries. He remembered Nicolo as a well-spoken fellow who served excellent cheese pie with herbs, but now he read his thoughts like a student cramming the night before an exam. Not that he would agree with everything, but some of the advice was rather sound when applied to demonic power structures, and it calmed him to have some knowledge to lean on instead of going into such an important job blindly. He was still sitting with the book in his lap when Crowley awoke in the morning, rereading some passages that he wanted to return to.

Crowley had woken himself up with an undignified snort, which the angel was kind enough not to mention. He rubbed his eyes blearily, and when the morning sunlight maliciously poked him in the retinas, he picked up his sunglasses from the tabletop where he'd discarded them last night.

"Coffee," he grumbled, because that was the only thought on his mind. He somehow managed to pour himself off the sofa and into the kitchenette, there may have been magic involved, he was too intent on his mission to tell. He made a cup of tea as well. Because of course he did. Upon entering the bookshop proper, he found Aziraphale still reading. He'd been at it all night, it seemed. "Good book?" He asked, handing over a cup of tea.

"Let's just say that the power structures of 16th century Italy and Hell might have a lot in common," Aziraphale said. He closed the book and took the cup of tea. "Thank you, my dear."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Sounds about right," he murmured, taking in a mouthful of blistering hot coffee. "So... what's on the agenda for today, then? Still up for that picnic?"

Aziraphale nodded. "I'd like to see the whole place before any formal proclamation. It might be a bit of a shock being a demon and suddenly being told that your King is an angel, and you need to obey him. I would like to give them a chance to get to know me a bit before doing that."

"Mn. Very considerate. You, er..." Crowley scratched his ear, trying to appear casual. The nervous jittering of his leg however, gave him away. "You want me to tag along, or...?"

"Oh..." Aziraphale bit his lip, misinterpreting the question. He wrung his hands together, suddenly looking unsure. "I hoped you would... But if you don't want to go there anymore, of course, that's all right, I won't ask you to. I'm sorry I assumed... of course you wouldn't want to go back there, silly me. Just... give me some time, please? I'll try to do something with the place, I promise. Something you wouldn't mind returning to, I hope..."

Oh for crying out loud, Crowley had really put his foot in it now. He blinked in surprise and then leant forward and put one of his hands over Aziraphale's clasped ones as gently as he dared. "I didn't mean I don't want to. It'd be my pleasure. And er, someone's got to carry the picnic basket, right? Can't have a King carrying his own picnic basket."

Aziraphale looked at Crowley's hand touching his and breathed out softly, as if it were a butterfly he didn't want to scare away. "You... want to come?" he asked shyly. "Then why did you ask? Of course I want you to come with me, why wouldn't I?"

Crowley shrugged, but his face was earnest and his hand hadn't moved. "We-ell might cramp your style, you know, hanging around a lowly demon like me. M'not exactly _liked_ Down There," he swallowed, "and you're the _King_ now..."

Aziraphale tried hard to understand what's making Crowley insecure. "So you mean," he frowned, "I would stop liking you because they don't like you there, and I belong there now? Or that your status is so much lower than mine that I should find you not worth hanging out with? Because both are, forgive my language, a complete and utter horseshit. Actually, what I want is to make Down There into a place that _you_ would like. And if you care for the title, a King can give one, right? What's highest after a King? A Prince? Would you like to be one?"

Crowley's eyebrows went up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline, his brain audibly whirred as it tried to process all that the angel had said. His mouth flopped open. "You... you said a bad word," he croaked out.

Aziraphale snorted. "It was necessary. Forgive me my dear, but no other expression would cover the nonsense you were saying. And I believe it's almost expected from me in this position to be just occasionally _bad_ , isn't it?"

Crowley's expression of surprise slipped into something softer. He grinned, a small lopsided thing, "Oh angel, you can be as bad as you like," he drawled, and then was suddenly very conscious of the fact that his hand was still covering the angel's soft, warm one, and that he'd just used a rather suggestive tone. Oops. He cleared his throat, straightening his back.

Aziraphale's expression turned into a naughty grin. But instead of being suggestive, it seemed as if he was just trying it on and the impression was rather spoilt by a blush that spread right after it. "Crowley, you fiend!" he admonished in a way of a scandalized victorian lady who doesn't find it proper to admit openly that she doesn't actually mind being scandalized.

Emboldened by the blush, Crowley leant forward a bit, and pushed his luck even further with a wink. "Guess we're both fiends now, eh? Suits you."

"I guess? I'm not sure..." Aziraphale stammered. For a moment he maintained their position, their hands still touching. Then he retreated a little, extricating himself from the touch as if he wanted to prevent some indecency he was actually thinking about, as far as could be judged by his deepening blush. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, what about the title? Would Prince be acceptable?"

Damn it, Crowley had to go overboard with the flirting, hadn't he? The demon sat back, giving Aziraphale some space. He didn't want to scare the angel off any more than he already had. "Nah, you know what? I'm good. I don't need a title, angel," he replied, dismissively.

It wasn't like calling him by something else was going to change who he was. He didn't think he had it in him to be a prince, really. All that pomp and circumstance. Not to mention all the warts, and the big old demonic creature on top of your head, and the smell. Well, yeah, all right, maybe it would be different with Aziraphale in charge, but that was the vision that Crowley had of Princes in Hell. They were a nasty lot.

And anyway, he liked who he was just fine. _Prince Crowley._ Pffft, it just sounded stupid, didn't it?

He wasn't like Aziraphale. The angel looked good in a crown. Aziraphale was, you know, _regal_. And people listened to him. Crowley wasn't much good at commanding anyone... unless they were an army of rats. He didn't see how he'd be worthy of a title like that. "I mean, can you really see me as a prince? Pffft."

"Sure, why not?" Aziraphale wondered. "Much more believable than me as a King. But if you don't want such an abrupt change, maybe you could start with a lower title and see how it feels? I think you would make a great Prince, though. I would just like your word to have the authority it deserves."

"You're not going to let this go are you?" Crowley felt oddly pleased. "Heh, well if you're serious, we should just make up a new title so no one knows what it means, that'd really rile up ol' Beelzebub. They'd have no idea if I outranked them or not, or what the hell I'm supposed to be doing. You know. _Here comes his eminence, that bastard Crowley, Lord of taking-the-King-out-for-dinner-and-getting-him-suitably-ratarsed._ "

Aziraphale chuckled with that. "I must say such a title has a certain appeal. Very well, we have still time to figure out the exact one. Shall we go then? Let me just grab the picnic basket."

Crowley grinned, putting up a hand to halt the angel before he could make a move. "Oh, no you don't. That sounds like a job for the _royal-picnic-bearer._ " Crowley retrieved the basket from the kitchen, tucking its handle into the crook of his elbow.

Aziraphale watched him with an amused smile. "How about the _royal-speed-limit-keeping-driver_? Too wordy, I suppose..."

"Don't push it, your majesty," said Crowey, ushering him out of the door and into the car. "Maybe we should give the Bentley an official title while we're at it, she's been ferrying around your royal arse for decades."

Aziraphale patted the polstering of his seat. "I don't see why not..."

The Bentley's radio turned on as if in response and Freddie Mercury started to sing _"Here we are, born to be kings, we're the princes of the universe..."_

"Well, that might be a bit too much, I fear..." Aziraphale said.

The radio skipped to a different song. _"She's a Killer Queen, gunpowder, gelatine. Dynamite with a laser beam…"_

Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley, please explain to your car that such a title implies a relationship and I have no plans to enter one with a vehicle, thank you."

Crowley smirked, "Awww, don't say that, you'll hurt her feelings angel. Absolutely dash over wheels for you, she is. Maybe you could make her the royal consort? She's an ambitious lady."

The Bentley's engine rumbled with enthusiasm, radio crackling, " _I reign with my left hand, I rule with my right, I'm Lord of all darkness, I'm queen of the night -"_

That earned a bark of laughter from Crowley, "I like that one. Lord of all darkness, might steal that." He swivelled his head to look at Aziraphale. The Bentley's teasing had caused the angel to turn a beguiling shade of exasperated pink.

Aziraphale looked at him with the corner of his eye, his bastard side refusing to be the only one embarrassed (and also having a rather nice image of a certain nanny in a flowy black dress and a crown of diamonds in his mind). "The Lord of all darkness?" he asked. "Or the Queen of the night?"

"Wha - well, I - fffff?!" Crowley spluttered. He clenched his hands against the steering wheel and tried not to choke on his own spit. So, that's how the angel wanted to play it, eh?

He got control of himself, and the car, swerving around a corner with a screech of her tyres. Once they were on a relatively straight bit of road, he waggled his eyebrows at Aziraphale, "I thought you said that title implies a relationship?"

"I also said that you can pick any title you want," Aziraphale said, sounding a bit vulnerable as he watched out of the window instead of looking at Crowley.

Crowley was silent for a long moment, probably reading way too far into the implications of what the angel had said. "You'd really give me free reign?" he said eventually, yellow eyes peeking out behind his sunglasses as he gazed at the angel and not at the road. "S'dangerous of you. I'm a menace, you know. I'll put itching powder in your crown. Interrupt all your royal decrees with a kazoo. Put a whoopie cushion on your throne - that's a classic, that one. And you wouldn't be able to get rid of me, 'cause I'd be a prince or queen or whatever, er, not a queen, maybe a duke - listen, what I mean is. Shouldn't you give me a trial run before you let me wreak bloody havoc down there?"

Aziraphale smiled a little. "Doesn't six thousand years count as a trial run? I believe I know perfectly well what a menace you are, my dear."

Crowley smiled back, showing a little fang. "Oh, think you can handle me do you?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Just drive the car, please..."

"As his majesty commands," replied Crowley, with a smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our plan was "and then they go to the bookshop". Then Crowley and Aziraphale just did what they wanted.


	5. Chapter 5

The Bentley mounted the pavement outside the entrance of a certain nondescript office building, and her engine grumbled to a halt. Crowley flailed an arm out behind him, and grabbed the picnic basket from the backseat. He opened the door for Aziraphale and then they walked together towards the escalators.

The angel almost stepped on the upward one before he caught himself. "Old habits..." he murmured and stepped on the downward escalator with visible relief.

"Oof, there's a thought," said Crowley. "Wonder what that twat Gabe would think if he saw you now? Might wet himself."

"I don't think he would ever let himself have such a bodily function, but he might be rather shocked, I believe," Aziraphale smirked a little at the mental image. He stopped smirking when he saw who was expecting them just below the escalator.

"Crowley, Crowley, Crowley..." drawled Hastur. "So nice to have you back. How's our favourite traitor doing?"

Crowley took a step forward, slightly in front of Aziraphale as they neared the bottom. His grin was sharp, hackles raised. "Hastur! Fancy seeing you Down here. How've you been? You look great. Is that a new boil?"

Aziraphale wanted to move in front of Crowley, but realized how ridiculous it would look if they start having a competition about who will stand in front of the other, and so he let Crowley have his way, but remained alert in case Hastur tried anything.

But Hastur ignored Crowley after the initial exchange and turned to Aziraphale with a sly expression. "I've heard you are the new Boss here. Welcome, your Majesty..." he bowed.

That surprised Aziraphale. "Er... yes, it seems that I am. Thank you."

"And as a King you, of course, are the first defender of justice in Hell. So might I ask, your Majesty, what's the punishment for murdering a fellow demon with holy water?"

 _Ah. So that's what this is about_ , Aziraphale thought. "It depends on the circumstances," he said coldly, looking Hastur in the eyes. "Such an act in self-defense might be pardoned, but an unnecessary murder would be treated more gravely."

"I see your knowledge about the laws of Hell is rather insufficient, your Majesty," Hastur narrowed his eyes. "Just between the two of us, I would familiarize myself with them in your place. You might easily lose your position over such a thing..."

Crowley miracled a black notebook with a snap of his fingers, and scribbled something into it.

Hastur eyed him with a suspicious scowl.

"Oh, don't mind me," Crowley said, still writing in the notebook. "Just taking notes. On the King's behalf. You see, there might be a bit of a shakeup Down Here in regards to hierarchy - never know who you can trust, am I right? We wouldn't want, say, a _Duke_ or someone, who might have _ulterior motives_ , or a _grudge_ , to still hold a position of power. That would be stupid. Now," he poised his pen, with a dark curling smile, "what were you threatening our King with again? I want to be accurate for the execution records..."

"You think you're so clever, Crowley," Hastur snarled. "Take my title, if you want. But your angel won't last long here. Once he stops being a novelty, they will see that it can't work. I'll just wait for that and enjoy the show."

Crowley snapped his notebook shut, concealing a very graphic doodle of a frog being splatted by a snakeskin boot.

"You do know who Aziraphale is, don't you?" he drawled, pausing for dramatic effect. "He's an angel that's walked through hellfire and _survived_. Heaven is terrified of him. You have absolutely no idea what he's capable of. If he wanted to, he could snap his fingers and melt you into a steaming puddle of goo. But eh, lucky for you, he's the nice one."

"And that's exactly why he won't last long," Hastur smirked maliciously. "Enjoy it while you can, traitor," he said and walked away.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale. "Er. Don't suppose you can snap your fingers and turn him into a puddle of steaming goo, can you?

"Hmm... I'm not sure. Maybe? But I don't want to. I'm the nice one..." Aziraphale said, watching the leaving demon thoughtfully.

"Well, we're gonna have to do something about him sooner or later," mused Crowley. There was no way Hastur was getting his grimy mitts anywhere near Aziraphale, not if Crowley had anything to do with it. "He's a slippery bugger."

"Right," Aziraphale sighed. "I suppose we will. But now, could you lead on towards the fourth circle? Dagon said there was some trouble yesterday. I guess we don't need to announce our arrival to anyone, right?"

"Nah, we're good," Crowley wrangled his thoughts away from Hastur's smug face, trying not to let the worry over that slimy git and his nefarious intentions ruin their day. He shifted the picnic basket on his arm. "I'm pretty sure the bigwigs know you're down here anyway."

It explained why Hastur had shown up the minute Aziraphale stepped a toe in Hell. Must be some sort of surveillance, or maybe they could feel the power of the crown.

"Don't need their help anyway," proclaimed the demon, with a grin. "I'm the King's Official Guide. Master of directions. Lord of not-getting-lost-and-ending-up-in-the-sulphur-pits, that's me."

* * *

Half an hour later, Aziraphale watched the sulphur pits. "Well... it's rather scenic, isn't it? I like the combination of yellow with the blue flame..."

Crowley grumbled, consulting his mental map and kicking at a few loose stones on their path. "All right, all right, so I might've taken a detour - I know it's around here somewhere. Anyway, fill your lungs, angel. Perfect spot for a picnic. All those pungent fumes. And bubbling goop. Take you to the best places, don't I?"

"Yes, a lovely detour, dear," Aziraphale nodded. "But it's not proper time for a picnic yet, so could you please take us to the fourth circle? Or should I ask someone for directions?"

"We're not asking anyone for directionsss! They'll think I don't know where I'm going. And I do. It's just, uh, up here, and to the left." He stalked off, grumbling, one hand shoved into his pocket and the other precariously swinging the picnic basket.

About an hour later, Aziraphale had to use his halo to see where they were going because the darkness in the hallway they found themselves in was absolute. "Crowley?" he asked. "Aren't these, by any chance, the deepest pits?"

"No," the demon replied, stubbornly, and a little guiltily, "because if these were the deepest pits we'd be hearing some screaming right about now, wouldn't we? And as you can clearly hear, angel -" a loud wail cut him off, and he stiffened, grabbing a hold of Aziraphale's arm. "Shit - er, okay, yes, we _might_ be in the deepest pits. But it's not my fault! I _told_ you we should've gone right when we saw the post room."

"I clearly remember you saying that you're sure it's just a bit further to the left," Aziraphale said primly. "If you would let me ask that nice imp we met for the way..."

He was interrupted by another scream.

"Oh dear..." he murmured. "Are those demons? What are they being punished for?"

Crowley grimaced. "Well, I told you my lot doesn't send rude notes..."

"So does that mean that these demons are being punished for being bad at their job?" Aziraphale asked a bit shakily.

"Yeah." Crowley swallowed. His face was noticeably pale under the dim glow of Aziraphale's halo. "Pretty much. They've got no use for a soft demon down here - listen, maybe we should get out of here. Don't think torture's really your scene."

"No," Aziraphale said with a surprising firmness to his voice. "I think it's exactly where I want to be. Thank you for bringing me here, my dear. I'm going to release them."

Crowley's eyes went wide, "you _wot?_ You can't be serious."

"Why? They are suffering and I have the power to stop it. Why would I _not_ do it?"

Crowley still had a hold of Aziraphale's arm. He let it go, fingers numb.

Of _course_ the angel would want to save everyone he could; he was compassionate and kind and all sorts of other things that could get you into a lot of trouble in Hell. Hastur's threat weighed heavily on Crowley's mind. It wouldn't exactly be wise to do something like this - it would _definitely_ antagonise the higher ups - er, lower downs - when they were trying to show Aziraphale was King of Hell material.

It was a bad idea. _Very_ bad.

But Crowley knew that Aziraphale would never let anyone suffer if he could help it. The bloody self-sacrificing, stubborn, wonderful idiot. And... it could just as easily have been Crowley stuck down here, wailing in the dark. He scrunched up his face and made a few incoherent noises, rubbing his fingers through his hair.

"All right," said Crowley, regretting it already, "but stay close to me."

Aziraphale nodded, having no desire to stay anywhere else than near Crowley in this dreadful place. He opened the closest door and carefully peeked inside.

Crowley tried to poke his head over Aziraphale's shoulder, but it was a bit of a squeeze, as the angel had only opened the door a crack. He squinted, but couldn't see much of anything. "What is it?" he whispered into the angel's ear. "I can't see with your big head in the way."

Aziraphale needed a moment to gather his courage. Then he opened the door fully, his halo bringing light to a place that only knew darkness since the beginning of time. There was a demon in the room. His body was lizard-like and covered in scales. He'd almost resemble a dinosaur, if dinosaurs weren't a joke for paleontologists.

He was chained in a way that looked quite painful. But Aziraphale felt he had the authority to do something about that.

"Your sentence is over. I release you," he said, and the chains opened.

As the restrictive chains clanged to the floor, the demon was able to stand up properly. And he was _huge_. Crowley strained his neck just looking at him - thinking, yep, he'd been right, this had been a very bad idea.

Just because this demon had been bad enough at his job to warrant a stay in the deepest pits, didn't mean he couldn't also be very, very dangerous.

The lizard demon had nictitating eyelids that flickered over his dark eyes as they adjusted to the light, and one big scaled arm came up to shade his face. It was probably the first light the poor bastard had seen in a long whilqe.

His voice sounded like gravel. " _Who?_ " he managed to croak.

Aziraphale could see the demon's wounds healing as he was released from his binding that had clearly restrained more than just his physical form. _It could have been Crowley here_ , he kept thinking and the idea filled him with determination.

"Oh, hello," he raised his hand slightly and waved just with his fingers. "I'm Aziraphale and... well, I suppose it's easiest to explain like this." He brought forth the crown on his head that now felt more and more like a true part of him that he could show and hide at will - maybe because he just used its authority. "See? This is an official amnesty."

"You're -" the demon's eyes widened at the sight of the crown, and he bowed his massive head, looking down at his wrists.

Crowley saw disbelief in those reptilian eyes. Hell was cruel in their punishments, though not particularly imaginative, it was clear the other demon thought this might be a trick. Best to take this slowly.

"I don't know how long you've been down here, but things have changed a _lot_ ," started Crowley, gently. "New King, for starters. New rules. What's your name?"

"Grg," the demon said, glancing at Crowley distrustfully. "Heaven won?"

"Oh, no. No, I see the misunderstanding now," Aziraphale said. "I'm not associated with Heaven. Well, I'm now associated with Hell, it seems."

Grg blinked, obviously finding that hard to understand.

Crowley attempted to explain the situation in a brief and precise manner, and failed spectacularly. "Listen, er, Grg. Great name by the way, very consonant-y. Right, the short version of events is this - the Antichrist chose not to destroy the world, the war was subsequently averted, Satan got, er - well, I don't want to go into it in too much detail, because I don't really get it myself, but the long and short of it is, he's _gone_ and Aziraphale stepped in as the new King and now, apparently, we're going around freeing demons -"

Grg held up one monstrous hand to stop the flow of rambling information. "But," he rumbled, getting straight to the point, "he is an _angel?_ "

"Well," said Crowley, puffing out a breath, "I mean, _technically_ speaking yes, but he's a rogue agent now, no longer part of Heaven after disagreeing with their management. I bet you know all about disagreeing with management, eh?"

Grg narrowed his eyes, looking at Aziraphale. "You were not punished?"

"They tried," Aziraphale said. "So I left. But to tell the truth, that wasn't the reason I left, just an opportunity to do so. Why I left was because they treated me like I didn't matter."

Grg nodded vigorously, probably finding that quite relatable.

"But you matter."

Grg stopped nodding and froze like a computer that encountered a logical error. "Grg matters?" he managed to voice after a while.

"Yes."

"And you're King?"

"Apparently, yes."

"I matter to King?"

"A+ for propositional logic. Yes, Grg. You matter to King."

The demon's many-toothed mouth broadened in something resembling a huge smile, apparently deciding that if that was the case, then the King being an angel wasn't an issue.

Crowley couldn't help but feel a bit nervous at the sight of that wide toothy grin, but the other demon made no move towards them. Instead Grg ducked into a bow, bending his massive height in two until his reptilian snout touched the floor. It was a show of deference that Crowley felt he didn't deserve to be witnessing.

"Er," said Crowley, "right then... ready to make a move, angel?"

"If Grg is," Aziraphale said, trying to assess the demon's condition. It seemed his healing abilities kicked in rather quickly after he was freed. "All right," he nodded. "We are going to free all of the demons here. Can you help us, Grg? It would take us a lot of time to explain it to everyone properly, so I'll just do the freeing and you and the other freed ones do the explaining. Do you think you can do that?"

Grg looked proud to be given such an important task. He nodded.

They set off with Grg lumbering ahead of them. He seemed eager to please Aziraphale, and certainly knew his way around the pits, his reptilian eyes able to see their way in the dark.

The air down here was oppressive and hot, like walking through thick custard. Crowley put one hand on the wall to steady himself, barely suppressing a shudder as they went from cell to cell releasing the captive demons. Those poor bastards.

Aziraphale was not naïve, even if his idea to release the demons might seem so. They got lucky with Grg, but he knew that such luck might not hold. That's why he released the demons one by one and moved on faster than they could get some dangerous ideas. He left the explaining of the situation to the already freed ones.

What he didn't count with was the fact that it inadvertently created a demonic version of Chinese whispers and the story got blown up with each retelling. In the later versions, he defeated Satan with his bare hands and took his crown, destroyed a section of Heaven and cancelled the Apocalypse so that he could free the demons from the pits.

Crowley swore he hadn't helped any of the rumours along. Well, all right, _maybe_ that one about Aziraphale punching the Archangel Gabriel in his smug face.

He kept close to Aziraphale's side. The sooner they got out of this literal hell hole the better. "I think that might be the last of them," he murmured, as they exited the final cells.

Behind them, a demon with huge orange owl eyes was given the truncated version of events by Grg. The feathers on her neck were beginning to grow back and rustled audibly as her head swivelled around to view Aziraphale with awe. No doubt the angel would be a legend in no time.

"You all right?" Crowley waved a hand vaguely at the crown on Aziraphale's head. He wasn't sure if all this freeing business had tired the angel out or not, he seemed oddly subdued. But then, that could just have been because he'd seen the deplorable conditions down here.

Following the direction of Crowley's gaze, Aziraphale reached above his head and touched the crown, looking now quite solid even on his human form. "Oh, it's leaking..." he murmured. "I'm fine, but I would really appreciate that wine and sandwich now. Do you think you could... actually, never mind." He turned towards the little crowd of demons. "Could someone here be so kind to show us the way to the sulphur pits?"

Crowley bristled. "Oi, I'm more than capable of, er..." under Aziraphale's pointed look he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. "Yeah, fair enough."

"Grg would be honoured to show you the way," offered the hulking demon, proudly baring his teeth.

It took about five minutes to get from the deepest pits to the sulphur pits.

"Excellent scenery," Aziraphale remarked. "Mind handing me that basket, dear? Thank you."

He took out a picnic blanket and stretched it on the ground. It was red and white, just like from an idyllic picture of a Sunday afternoon in a park. It looked out of place on the black volcanic rocks lit by a ghostly blue flame, but Aziraphale started to put out plates on it as if he really were in a park.

What made him pause was not the surroundings but the audience. He realized that all the demons from the pits followed them and were now gathering around, watching him.

"Oh! How rude of me..." he murmured. "Would you like to join our picnic?"

The demons had no idea what a picnic was. It looked like some kind of ritual. The King invited them to take part in it and they agreed eagerly.

"Very well... we have curd cheese and egg sandwiches," Aziraphale informed them and started multiplying the food for the crowds.


	6. Chapter 6

"My Lord, the angel!" Dagon stormed into Beelzebub's office, a bit out of breath. "He released all demons from the deepest pits!"

Beelzebub stood up out of their chair, the air around them darkening with squirming, wriggling shadows.

"He _what._ " they spat, and though their voice was quiet, it was layered with cold danger. "Take me to him, _now_. I should have known we couldn't truzzzt an angel!"

The din of a million buzzing flies accompanied them as they swept out of the room with Dagon in tow.

"Be careful, my Lord!" Dagon warned while trying to keep pace with Beelzebub. "It might be a calculated move. By releasing the demons he could get their loyalty. What if he's building an army?"

Beelzebub growled in their throat, "It'll take more than those low level demonzz to overthrow us. But you're right, the angel might be gathering forcezzz. I should have suzzpected..."

A few demons, who had been sorting through paperwork, fled in a flurry of papers as Beelzebub rounded the corner. It was an understandable reaction to seeing the Prince stalk past, covered in a swarm of angry flies, and exuding a stench like an overflowing rubbish tip.

"We should azzemble the Dukes, their loyalty at least, we can depend upon."

"I'm not sure if literally depend..." Dagon mused. "You know, they're demons. Would be weird if demons could rely on each other. But in this, yes, I think we can rely on their selfish desire to keep their position. According to my information the angel is by the sulphur pits. I'll send a word for the dukes to meet us on the way there."

Beelzebub flicked their pale eyes over Dagon, their ire giving way to calculation. "Duke Hastur hazz a particular grudge against the traitor," they buzzed, "I'm sure we can exploit this to our advantage."

They headed down and down, the sulphurous stink getting more pungent as they descended.

Several Dukes joined them on the way, but not Hastur. Hastur had already been there, lurking around.

"Remember Crowley's report about the French revolution?" he asked with a grin when he saw Beelzebub and the others. "They beheaded their own king. An interesting idea, isn't it?"

Beelzebub looked at him impassively. "Interezzting," they agreed, not willing to show their cards just yet.

The other Dukes were looking on with interest, the strange animals on their heads pricking their ears and widening their eyes in anticipation of meeting the new King and possibly overthrowing him. It was the first bit of fun they'd had in ages.

It wasn't hard to find the angel. He was in the centre of a little crowd of demons, sitting on a picnic blanket and, at the moment, explaining how to best pair wine with cheese.

Beelzebub took in the scene with hard eyes. This was the angel's plan? To tempt demons onto his side with freedom and... food? It sounded ridiculous, but it seemed to be _working_.

The angel was clearly very dangerous and not to be underestimated.

Beelzebub made their presence known by sending a few of their buzzing swarm forward. The flies were instantly drawn to the sandwiches that were clutched in the crowding demons' claws. They withered the bread and aged the filling until it was fetid and covered in mould.

"Oh, hello," Aziraphale waved. "If you would like your own sandwich, you could just tell me, you know."

Crowley stood up from where he'd been grumpily pouring out expensive wine into too many glasses. "To what do we owe the displeasure, Lord Beelzebub?" he asked, placing himself protectively in front of the small crowd and keeping a tight hold of the wine bottle as if it were a tyre iron.

Beelzebub rolled their eyes. As if the traitor could ever stand in their way. "You will return these prisonerzz to their cells immediately," they demanded of the angel. "They have committed crimes, and are serving due punishment."

Crowley wafted a hand about, "Bah, they've been officially pardoned by the King. Now, if you don't mind, we're trying to have a picnic."

A… picnic?

Beelzebub took in the small wicker basket with curiosity. It was a similar vessel to that which had once been used to transport The Antichrist. Such a thing could harbour great evil within it. They flared their nostrils, interestedly. Hmm. It seemed to be full of bizarre smelling items.

What was this anyway? A ritual? Was the angel harvesting souls? Entering into some sort of contract with the gathered demons by forcing them to consume magical items? They sniffed at an egg sandwich, suspiciously.

"I heartily recommend the cheese," Aziraphale said lightly. "As to the matter of the amnesties, it's well within my right, I believe." He stood up, subtly bringing attention to the crown on his head that flickered into the material plane. "I apologize for not informing you ahead of time. We just made a little detour to the deepest pits and I couldn't possibly leave them there. Some have been there for centuries or even millenia. Do you even remember what they were being punished for?"

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes at the crown, "Dagon has the files on every demon. I assure you, if they were in the pits it was because they deserved to be there. Perhapzz," they inclined their head, "they have tricked you into releasing them. You cannot believe a word they say."

"Oh, it's good that you mention the files," Aziraphale nodded. "I'm impressed by your archives, in that case. Those files will have to be updated so that nobody will discredit the amnesties. Would you please take care of that, Dagon? As to the reasons, I didn't ask. Whatever they did, they were already punished and I believe in second chances," he shrugged.

"I don't," Hastur used the moment when Aziraphale's attention was elsewhere to lean towards Crowley and whisper into his ear.

Crowley did his best not to jump at the sudden proximity. Jesus H. _Christ_ , where the _buggering hell_ had Hastur sprung up from? The sneaky bastard.

Crowley only kept his cool through sheer willpower, he had been so focused on Aziraphale he hadn't noticed the Duke sidling up to him. He couldn't help wrinkling his nose at the smell though. As the Duke leaned close to him, the pungent aroma emanating from Hastur's trench coat was enough to overpower the sulphur pits themselves.

"Well," Crowley murmured back, with a confident grin that he didn't feel, "S'good job you're not King then, isn't it?"

"Yes," Hastur agreed, intentionally raising his voice so that the other Dukes could hear him. "I'm starting to think that the whole idea of a monarchy is a bit outdated, don't you agree?"

_Oh shit, here we go,_ thought Crowley. Thankfully, owing to their unplanned detour around the pits, Crowley was now aware of all of the immediate exit routes in the near vicinity. If things got any worse, he'd be grabbing the angel's plump hand and hightailing it out of there before Hastur could blink.

"Eh, I've never been one for authority figures," Crowley replied, honestly. "But I thought you were all for them. Does that mean you're ready to give up your title, then?"

He circled Hastur, as a predator might encircle their prey. Which was a terrible idea, because the Duke was hideous from every angle.

"No monarchy means no Dukes, am I right? _Duke Hastur_ \- you know, I never thought that suited you. You could just be the plain old _demon_ Hastur, now that's got a nice ring to it. You'd lose all your privileges, be practically the same as an imp. But no, yeah, you're absolutely right, who needs a monarchy? Pffft, not me. But then," he eyed the other Dukes over the rim of his sunglasses, "I've got nothing to lose."

"I'm willing to sacrifice my title on the altar of revolution," Hastur said, apparently a phrase he heard somewhere.

"Well I'm not," Dagon interjected.

"No."

"Definitely not," echoed some of the other Dukes.

"But I was thinking a government composed of Ministers would be more suitable in these modern times," Hastur continued quickly, "with the old titles remaining as honorary ones, of course."

It really seemed he took the time to study modern political arrangements and think this through.

Even Aziraphale was impressed, despite himself. He approached Hastur. "What would you be a Minister of?" he asked with interest.

"Uh... what?"

"You need to be a Minister of something. An area you are responsible for, like education, environment, transport..."

"Justice," Hastur said with a challenging expression. He really did his homework this time.

Aziraphale nodded, his face not revealing what he thought about the idea of Hastur as the Minister of justice. "You would need to be elected first. But it's an interesting idea. We had no time to discuss political arrangements yet. Please, take a sandwich or a glass of wine and sit down with us," he invited all the Dukes. "We really should have a little chat about it."

When they grudgingly obliged, or at least some of them did, Aziraphale did the same, taking a glass of wine which looked admittedly more regal than an egg sandwich.

"I definitely don't want to force my will where it's not wanted," he said. "And you are right that monarchy is a bit outdated, but in some places it works quite well together with democracy. It would be nice if the citizens of Hell could freely elect their King, but it seems the title has a will of its own. What I can do, though, is to let all demons vote on the level of executive power that the title will carry, and whether it shall only be a representative function or one with the right to set laws. But one kingly right I will reserve no matter the outcome," Aziraphale's look got hard, revealing something steely and determined under the soft appearance, "the right to give pardons and amnesties. All other rights I'm willing to negotiate, but this one is mine."

Some cheers from the crowd of freed demons revealed their opinion about that.

Crowley blinked something irritating out of his eye. Bit of sulphur, or something. Must be.

_Amnesty for demons, eh?_ he pondered, unable to take his eyes off the softly glowing angel. _Who woulda thought it._ He wondered if Aziraphale realised the magnitude of what he was proposing. Here he was, in the very bowels of Hell, surrounded by demons... and he was offering everyone a fresh start, indiscriminately, as easily as he handed out sandwiches.

It was all a bit bloody bonkers, really.

Crowley held out an egg sandwich to Hastur, face deliberately unreadable. He wanted to poke out his forked tongue, but didn't think it would go down too well. Probably shouldn't antagonise a Duke who wanted to kill you.

Hastur narrowed his eyes, ignoring the sandwich. "So you want the right to just say no to any fair punishment?" he asked darkly. "Hell is kept together by fear of punishment. Take that away and it falls apart, am I not right?" he turned to the Dukes.

Most of them nodded in agreement, but a few hesitated, including Dagon - it seemed that the appreciation of her archiving system made her a bit more prone to take the angel's side.

"In that case," Aziraphale said amiably, "you will need something else to keep it together. I have a few ideas, but it all depends on the outcome of the vote. I can only implement them if I'll have enough executive power to do so. Otherwise... yes, it's possible that your fear-based system might fall apart." He ignored Hastur then and looked straight at Beelzebub.

Beelzebub stared back, unflinchingly.

They had witnessed the angel's strange power to inspire loyalty at the cricket match, and now here he was again, easily able to rally demons to his cause. He was intriguing as much as he was infuriating. But, they were not sure such a thing would last. A leader who refused to punish those beneath them was weak. It was kill or be killed Down Here.

They sneered a little. "What new system do you propose? We have done things the same way for millennia, and it has always zzerved us well. Why should we change our ways on the whim of an angel. You have proven yourself _soft_ , at every turn. Freeing prisoners, playing games. Tell me, how do you hope to govern Hell if you are too afraid to punish those who are deserving?"

Many during the millenia have seen Aziraphale as soft. Many also made the mistake of equating soft with weak. Many times Aziraphale didn't correct the assumption, letting it slide. But now, the correction seemed actually worth the effort.

"Playing games?" he asked in a low voice. "I believe you saw it as solving a dangerous problem you weren't able to take care of yourself just yesterday. And tell me, if you alone would release all prisoners, what would happen? That might give you a hint at whether it takes more courage to punish someone under your authority or to _not_ punish them."

Aziraphale let that sink in for a moment and then he continued matter-of-factly. "You have been doing the same for millenia and it has always served you well, that's true. It has served _you_ personally, and a few more who were in charge. But what about the others? There are two methods that you can use to achieve a certain kind of behaviour."

He looked around to make sure the Dukes were listening before he continued. "Fear of punishment for bad behaviour is one. The other is a reward for good behaviour. Frankly, I find it quite difficult to believe that you went through a rebellion, and the whole ordeal of Falling, just to replace one system for a very similar one. I would have thought you would want to be as different from Heaven as possible."

Crowley looked around at the other demons, who were hanging on the angel's every word. Aziraphale had a commanding presence that Crowley rarely got to witness. It was hot.

"Obeying should be a choice, connected with a reward," Aziraphale spoke further. "I know it's much harder to make it work, but I believe it's worth it. And yes, I'm aware it won't be some utopia. Someone will always be unhappy, but I'm willing to put in the work and effort needed to improve what can be improved, and make the system as just for everyone as possible. No offense, but it seems to me as though your old King wasn't willing to do that as long as the system suited _him_. I don't know if _you_ are willing to help with the work, and I'm not going to force you into anything. If you choose to change, there will be rewards, of course. Hastur's idea with Ministries was a rather good one. Humans actually had a lot of good ideas about organization of the society. I honestly don't know why you are still stuck on the stage of absolutism and slavery..."

Beelzebub stood through Aziraphale's speech with a clenched jaw. "You are asking us to fundamentally change our naturezz in order to form this new society of yours. You have had _mild success_ with the lower demons implementing your... reward scheme... but who's to say your methods will work for the majority? I have been responsible for Hell and its denizens since the very beginning, I will not hand over control to an angel who _criticisezz_ our systems when he does not know the pain that forged them."

Crowley waggled his fingers to get their attention, "er, hello, if I can just interject a bit -"

"No," growled Beelzebub.

"Right, well, I'm going to say it anyway, so. S'worth a try, isn't it? I mean, if you hate the new system, you can just stop doing it. But I think getting rewarded instead of tortured might, y'know, improve morale significantly. Which you're desperately in need of right now, if those riots yesterday were anything to go by. Seems to me that, without Aziraphale here, you'd be fucked. He's being reasonable with you. You should probably take him up on his offer to keep you a part of things before he changes his mind and decides you're not worth keeping around."

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale smiled at him fondly. "However, I don't think I would do such a thing. I respect all of the work Prince Beelzebub has done in order to keep Hell running smoothly for thousands of years. They had nothing but the authority of the King, which was only backed by the fear of him. I'm sure you'll agree, they performed admirably under the conditions that were imposed upon them."

He turned his eyes to Beelzebub.

"The pain that you mentioned, that forged your old system - might I ask, what was the source of it? Might it be possible, that one of the major sources is no longer present?"

Beelzebub's fly tilted its enormous head, "What are you getting at," they buzzed.

"You must understand, I'm not barging in here and breaking your working system. I'm afraid it's already broken. If it were still capable of functioning, you would be able to take care of any problems on your own, and quite clearly, that is not the case anymore. You lost your backing, and I can't replace it in the way you are used to. I can't base my rule on fear. In fact, I refuse to do so. I'm offering you what I can instead."

Beelzebub's face gave nothing away.

"Hell has always been rezzourceful," they said, in an authoritative tone that was loud enough to be heard by all of the gathered demons. "Kick us down, exclude us, drown us in sulphur," their hand came up to brandish at the bubbling pools, "and we don't juzzt survive, we _thrive_. We uzze everything at our disposal, we always have."

The surrounding demons rumbled their agreement.

"We will not let the arrival of a new King break us."

More rumblings, louder now.

Crowley blanched. _Oh shit,_ things weren't sounding great. He went to grab Aziraphale's arm, ready to run. Ready to protect the angel with everything he had.

Beelzebub lifted their chin, "So. If you are offering new ideas, we will use them to our advantage."

Wait.

_What?_

"Hell izz not so weak that it cannot adapt. We are strong. We will _thrive_ again. Tell us of your plans."

Aziraphale nodded and soon enough they were discussing the particularities of demonic society over the wine and sandwiches with smelly cheese (which proved rather popular with some of the Dukes).

Aziraphale asked for the opinions not only of the Dukes, but also of the freed lower demons. He freely admitted that he wasn't an expert, and as such he valued their input greatly. The angel combined their ideas with his own, and Crowley's knowledge of human society. Human knowledge would be a useful tool to utilise, Aziraphale insisted, as the humans were certainly very creative beings and their comprehension of such topics had expanded very rapidly in the last few centuries.

It was decided that several Disposable demons would enroll in the world's most prestigious universities, doing courses on sociology, psychology, management and similar topics that could be useful to Hell. They would then act as advisors.

Crowley hid a grin at that - he could only imagine the mischief the demons would get up to in Freshers' week at uni. There'd be a national shortage of traffic cones. Freshers' flu would gain a number of bizarre new symptoms including sprouting bubonic boils in unsightly places, and being able to smell nothing but brimstone for days on end. Not to mention all the terrible, terrible dancing.

But eh, they'd have fun. Demons could definitely benefit from a little more time on Earth. Gain a bit more understanding. Being among the humans would probably help them just as much as whatever they learned on their course.

At the end, the basics of the system were established and Aziraphale took leave of both the higher and lower demons, wishing only for the company of one particular demon and a quiet evening.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley's nerves were shot.

Don't get him wrong, things were definitely headed in the right direction, and that was great, really, it was fan-bloody-tastic. But standing around in Hell surrounded by your ex-bosses, while they tried to hash out a system of government, wasn't exactly Crowley's idea of a good time.

He felt on edge and sore in weird places, and he'd definitely eaten too many egg sandwiches. He just wanted to wrap himself around Aziraphale and wish them off to Bermuda for an extended holiday.

Crowley couldn't even imagine how the angel was feeling. Aziraphale had demons looking up to him. Relying on him. Arguing with him about trivial rubbish and celestial wages and whether using an imp as a footrest was a necessary evil.

Blech. If this was going to become a habit, they were going to need to invest in some serious R&R. Maybe a hot tub. Or a masseuse.

"Are you feeling well, dear?" Aziraphale asked when they passed through the door leading to a busy London street.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, "You're asking _me_ that? You're the one who just had a picnic with the most important demons in Hell. You even got them to talk _reasonably_ about things. How are you not nursing a headache the size of the bottomless pit?"

"Maybe because they aren't Archangels," Aziraphale said and scratched his head. "I'm actually feeling _useful_ , for a change. Like what I'm doing _matters_. It's... invigorating. But of course it's not a work pace I'd like to keep," he added more matter-of-factly. "Ideally we'll get to a point where the system will run itself with only a minimum of intervention from us."

" _Ideally_ ," muttered Crowley, as they made their way to the Bentley.

He wanted to be grumpy about it, but Aziraphale was actually enjoying himself Down There. The angel had power and responsibility that he'd never been allowed in Heaven, and what's more, they actually took him _seriously_. It was hard to stay grumpy when Aziraphale was finally being appreciated for the clever bastard he was.

Eh. Maybe Crowley was just a smidge jealous that they'd had to share their picnic.

"Anyway, enough politics. It's recuperation time. What do you fancy? Getting monumentally sloshed? 'Cause I fancy getting monumentally sloshed."

"Would you like to go to your flat, for a change?" Aziraphale asked. "You haven't been there for a while, I imagine your plants will need watering. And if you don't mind, I'd like to use your bathroom. It's so much bigger than mine, and the bathtub looks so comfortable. I didn't know humans had upgraded the design so much since I got mine. Oh, and ice cream. Could we get ice cream on the way there?"

Crowley's brain momentarily short circuited at the idea of Aziraphale in his bathtub, but he covered it very well by staring blankly at the angel for a solid minute.

"Right," he squeaked, eventually. Then he cleared his throat. "Right, bathtub. I mean, ice cream. Yeah. Sounds good."

"Excellent," Aziraphale smiled and sank into the Bentley's seat. "Sorry about the smell, dear," he said towards her dashboard. "Olomouc cheese..."

The Bentley showed her understanding by playing the first notes of the Bohemian rhapsody.

Crowley turned into the road, narrowly avoiding a bus. He was very diligently not thinking about bathtubs. At all. "So, which ice cream you in the mood for? That little place with the stracciatella, or that one with the pistachios?"

"Stracciatella," Aziraphale said after a short consideration and an obligatory "Crowley, mind the speed limit, please".

Crowley mimicked the angel's voice with a grumble. But it was a fair point, he might've been grinding his heel down on the accelerator a bit too much, but could you blame him? He gritted his teeth and forced himself to calm down. The Bentley returned to an almost respectable seventy miles an hour.

_Right, right,_ he thought, perfectly calmly, _Ice cream and then - a bath._

The angel was going to be in his bath.

That was a completely normal occurrence. Oh Christ, had he got clean towels? Had he - ngh, of _course_ he had bloody towels, and he could just miracle them up anyway. But had he got towels worthy of being wrapped around the angel?

And what about the soap, and the - the salts? And all that stuff that made bubbles?

The tyres squealed as the Bentley pulled up outside a tiny Italian gelato place where the owners knew Aziraphale on sight. They called him Mr Fell, and always suggested samples of the newest flavours on offer despite Aziraphale always picking the same ones.

Aziraphale still tasted every new flavour before picking his usual combination of stracciatella and pear sorbet, three scoops of each in a takeaway cup, thank you so much, and do pass on my good luck to your niece for her upcoming university exams.

He put the treat on the back seat of the Bentley where it wouldn't dare to shift or melt, remaining cool and fresh as long as the angel wanted it to.

He looked at Crowley and suddenly felt a bit uncertain. "Isn't it a tad impolite that I invited myself into your flat, my dear?" he asked with concern.

Crowley was taken aback for a minute, because honestly, the thought had never even crossed his mind. His face fell into an easy, teasing grin, and it wasn't half as pointy as usual, in fact it looked positively soft around the edges. "Oh yeah, _incredibly_ impolite. A real nuisance, you are. How dare you want to spend time with me."

Luckily Aziraphale was more than capable to read the meaning behind the words and smiled a little with relief. "No, I mean... you only really invited me to your flat once. And I know you're comfortable with spending time in the bookshop. But I didn't ask if you're comfortable with me spending time in your flat. Are you?"

"'Course I am," said Crowley, gentler this time. He'd thought Aziraphale had known that, but then he supposed he hadn't made it explicit, he'd just thought the angel preferred his own domicile as it was much cosier than Crowley's. "It was an open invitation, angel. Any time you want to impose. 'Cause you're _not_ imposing."

"Well, that's all right then" Aziraphale glowed. He looked content for the rest of the ride. When the Bentley was parked in front of the modern apartment complex, he took the ice cream from the back seat and followed Crowley inside.

Crowley led them into the lift and then up to his floor.

_All right. No big deal,_ the demon thought, frantically, _just the love of your life coming to your flat to eat ice cream and use your bath. Happens all the time._

Well, all right, it didn't happen all the time. Fuck, if this happened all the time Crowley would be ecstatic.

_Just... play it cool._

Crowley opened the door to the flat with a click of his fingers. He thought about letting Aziraphale enter first before his nerves got the better of him and he ducked inside, jerking his chin in a _follow me_ motion. If there was anything incriminating left out he could surreptitiously miracle it away before Aziraphale spied it. Not that he had anything incriminating - his Golden Girls collection was classic telly, and essential viewing, thank you very much - he just... didn't want the angel asking silly questions, that was all.

His flat looked as sparse and clean as it always did.

The last time Aziraphale had been here was that fateful night of the apocalypse. The angel had looked much different then, all the colour had drained from him until he'd almost matched the barren grey walls he had been standing beside, nervously twisting his fingers together.

He looked much happier now, probably on account of the promise of ice cream.

"You want to spoon?" Crowley asked, without thinking, heading to the kitchen.

And then his brain engaged.

He choked, spinning on his heel and putting his hands up. "That - that wasn't - _a_ spoon! I meant do you want _a_ spoon. For your ice cream." _Fuck._

Aziraphale frowned a little. It seemed like he was mentally backtracking in the conversation to see what it wasn't, but didn't really find anything justifying Crowley's embarrassment, besides a grammar slip. "Thank you, my dear," he said finally, "a spoon would be nice, if you can find one. If not, I guess a fork would do as well."

Crowley retreated to the kitchen and banged his head against one of the sleek cupboards a few times before he felt better. Then he got out a silver spoon from the cutlery drawer and went back into the living room.

"Right. Um," he mumbled, handing the spoon over awkwardly. "Make yourself at home. I'm gonna get some wine. You fancy a glass?"

"Hm... do you maybe have something that would go a bit better with stracciatella ice cream and pear sorbet? I'm thinking some liquor..." Aziraphale asked, eyeing the ice cream with barely contained excitement, probably already imagining the perfect way to eat it in a bubble bath.

"Yeah, 'course," said Crowley, suddenly finding himself in possession of a fancy glass cabinet, full to the brim with liqueurs and spirits to make even the most discerning of booze aficionados swoon with delight. "Come on, you can pick something out."

While the angel peered interestedly at the selection, Crowley grabbed a bottle of wine without checking the label. If it knew what was good for it, it'd be both palatable and strong enough to knock out a few brain cells. Crowley swallowed a glass down for courage.

"You er, want me to go fill the bathtub? Taps can be a bit fiddly..."

"Oh, that would be much appreciated my dear," Aziraphale smiled, studying a bottle of aged cognac.

Crowley retreated to the bathroom, wine bottle in hand, glass forgone. He closed the door and then leaned heavily against it, plonking the bottle on the sink and running his hands through his hair.

There was the bath, its taps gleaming in the light. Pristine. Angel-less. But not for long.

Crowley's hands shook as he turned the taps on. Right. The water was the perfect temperature, and it would stay that way if it knew what was good for it. He opened the small mirrored cupboard where he kept a sparse amount of toiletries that he rarely touched, and hoped to Someone that there'd be something in there worthy of Aziraphale. Something, y'know, nice smelling. And soft.

He glugged some designer bubble bath into the stream of hot water, followed it with too many bath salts and miracled a candle to place at the little shelf by the lip of the tub. A snap of his fingers, and it was lit.

... was that too romantic? It looked too romantic. He blew it out.

But now the air smelt like burnt wick and vanilla scented wax - and Aziraphale would _know_. He'd wrinkle his upturned nose and _comment_ on it. Oh, bugger it all. Crowley wafted a hand about, but that just spread the smoky smell about and that was a million times worse, the angel would definitely notice it now and - oh, shit, the water!

He ran to turn the taps off before the water could spill over. The bath could no longer be seen under the veritable mountain of bubbles.

Crowley relit the candle, and then changed his mind and blew it out again. Then he relit it.

Rose petals would be too much, wouldn't it? Ack, _definitely_ too much. Even if Aziraphale would coo at them.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale peeked in from behind the door. "I found this lovely bourbon to go with the ice cream... oh good gracious, that's a lot of bubbles! It looks like a little soft cloud..."

He passed through the door and the glass bowl he was carrying became visible. It was a quality crystal glass, one that Crowley actually didn't possess but Aziraphale expected to find it in the kitchen. There was ice cream in it, covered with a mountain of whipped cream and a topping of melted chocolate and fresh fruit, combined with a generous dose of bourbon. The spoon was sticking out of it like a flag marking the conquest of a previously untamed territory.

If Aziraphale noticed the smoke from the candle, he didn't comment on it. Instead he carefully balanced the bowl on the wide edge of the tub and submerged his hand into the bubbles. He took out a little heap of them on his palm and blew into it. He chuckled with that.

"Smells lovely too. No offence, but Hell really is rather odoriferous. I don't mind staying there to do some work, but I'm really looking forward to washing it off. Thank you for providing me with the means, my dear. I'm wondering now, do you think all the demons actually enjoy the smell, or just don't know that there can be something else? Or don't know that they are allowed to like something else, maybe..." he murmured, whirling his hand in the bubbles absently.

He shook his head then and smiled at Crowley. "But enough about work, right? You surely want to tend to your plants and relax already. I won't keep you any longer, just tell me where the shampoo is and which towels I can use, please and thank you, my dear."

"Right er," Crowley was momentarily blindsided by the sight of Aziraphale delighting in the bubbles. He swallowed, nodding. "Right."

The demon turned about and grabbed a stack of fluffy black towels from the rack and put them on the radiator to warm, then he raided the cabinet for some shampoo. He could only find his own - it would have to do, even though the smell of it lingering in Aziraphale's hair might just do him in. Not that the idea of the angel sitting in the tub eating that decadent ice cream from a crystal bowl wasn't already enough to give him an aneurysm.

Maybe he could calm down by spraying himself in the face with the plant mister.

"I'll just be... checking on the plants then. If you need me."

"Very well," Aziraphale nodded. "Pip-pip."

Soon after Crowley left, he could hear some faint sounds from the bathroom. The splashing of water. A delighted sigh. The low _mmmmm_ that comes with putting a spoon of something really delicious into one's mouth and licking it clean. The clinking of a spoon on glass. More splashing and a hummed melody.

About an hour later, Aziraphale came out of the bathroom, fully dressed in his clothes that were now miraculously clean and without the hellish odour (which proved that he could have done the same for his corporation, just didn't want to). His cheeks were flushed and his hair still a little wet. He was still drying them with the fluffy towel and obviously enjoying the smell of the shampoo.

Crowley had spent much of the past hour taking out his frustrations on the greenery. His golden pothos had been pruned to within an inch of its life, a snake plant had attempted to escape its own pot in fright, and the rest were shivering so much that they rustled audibly.

The demon had then consumed an awful lot of wine and settled on the sofa, in a vague attempt to unwind from the knot he'd tangled himself into upon hearing the sounds of the angel mere feet away luxuriating in his bubble bath.

And now here Aziraphale was, scrubbed pink. And all Crowley wanted to do was stick his nose deep into those damp white curls and inhale. He didn't. Obviously. The demon downed another glass of red, and then gestured with it. "Enjoy your bath, angel?"

"Oh, it was scrumptious," Aziraphale said. "Very relaxing. Are you going to have a turn too?"

Crowley thought about his body reclining in the same space the angel's had moments prior.

All the air left his lungs in a wheeze.

"Nope, no. I'm. Uh." He suddenly became aware of the fact that he stunk of brimstone, and there was unknown grime in places he didn't want to think about. Hell really did a number on corporations. On second thoughts, "Might have a quick shower."

"You don't have to rush for my sake," Aziraphale said, sitting down on the sofa. "Does your television show any nature documentaries?"

Crowley grabbed the remote and flicked Netflix on the wide flatscreen tv. He selected _Blue Planet_ because it was a sure fire way of getting Aziraphale to unwind. The soothing tones of Sir David, national treasure, along with all that, you know, ocean-y stuff. Big sea full of brains. Nothing more relaxing than that.

"Don't get emotionally attached to the penguin in this one," he warned, having learned that mistake the hard way. "Help yourself to, er, anything really. Wine. Cheese. Charcuterie."

"Thank you for the warning," Aziraphale nodded. "Oh, and the candle in the bathroom is really lovely, but I wasn't sure what to do with and if you'll want it for your bath, so I blew it out for now. I hope it's okay? There's a bit of smoke, I'm afraid."

Crowley knew that bloody candle had been too romantic - he should have melted it into a puddle of goo when he'd had the chance.

"Right. Well." He used a finger to slide the sunglasses up his nose. "In a bit, then. Enjoy your penguins." The demon sauntered off to the bathroom hoping to look cool and collected. It was a little warm in there, the air muggy, and the mirror had steamed up with condensation.

Crowley glared at the tub as if it were responsible for all the feelings that were currently trying to strangle him.

Yeah, there was no way he'd be able to sit through a bath, not with the angel in the other room, so he resigned himself to a quick cold shower. Just to get the stink off him.

Aziraphale had a bottle of wine and a neatly arranged assortment of cheeses on the table in front of him by the time Crowley got back. His freshly washed hair was even fuzzier than usual and from where Crowley was standing the blue light from the TV in the background made it look like a cloud against a blue sky. But the cold shower helped Crowley to regain some composure, so he didn't comment on it as he joined the angel on the sofa and helped himself to another glass of wine.

They drank together while watching the documentary. They got emotionally attached to the penguin. They drank even more then. The next hours got a bit blurry, with more documentaries about otters ("Look Crowley, they are holding hands when they sleep! Isn't that cute?), some kind of rodents, giant sequoias, and flamingos ("I wonder... you know what I wonder? I wonder if your wings would turn pink if you ate a lot of shrimp, like a flagmino, a flangimo, a, fff, one of them birds with one leg. Wanna try, angel?").


	8. Chapter 8

Morning came and Azirapahle's wings still didn't turn pink, despite several empty glasses of shrimp cocktail laying around.

They sobered up and got breakfast, complete with toast and little sausages, baked beans, mushrooms and grilled tomatoes, followed by waffles (but no eggs - after the Hellish picnic both of them had enough of eggs for a while).

"Well then... I suppose I should be off to work," Aziraphale said then, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Is there any particular title you had in mind for today?"

"Eh. Think I'll take _Knight_ for a spin, whaddya reckon?" Crowley drained the last of his coffee, as they stood up to leave. "Be a nod to Attenborough, seeing as we spent all night listening to him. You can get your old flaming sword out and dub me Sir Crowley of that old coffee table you've got in your back room with all the cup rings on it."

"Oh dear, that's a lovely idea!" Aziraphale beamed. "I can actually dub knights, can't I? Not with the flaming sword, of course, I gave it away... uhm, twice now. But I still have my other sword. Just where did I put it... ah, yes."

He snapped his fingers and a sword appeared in his hand. It was a _bastard_ sword. The very one the angel used to carry as Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round. It was still sharp and polished, as if it had been made just recently for some historical reenactor, not almost fifteen centuries ago.

"Kneel, Anthony J. Crowley," he proclaimed with pathos, but then blushed a little. "Uhm... only if you want to, though. I think it's just a formality, there's no need to actually kneel..."

If Crowley got down on his knees now, there was no telling where they'd end up. The demon shook himself, and then his head, repeatedly. "Wha - it was a _joke_ , angel! You can't be serious. Me, a bloody protector of the realm?"

Though, a protector of _Aziraphale_ he could do - had done, actually, for millennia. Not that he didn't suspect the angel of deliberately getting himself into trouble in the hopes that Crowley would make a dramatic rescue. Aziraphale could take care of himself, most of the time. But he shouldn't have to.

And oh, Christ, the angel looked good with a sword.

Crowley bristled, something in his chest clenching horribly, "Put that thing away before you poke someone's eye out."

"Oh..." Aziraphale looked a bit embarrassed and disappointed. He tried to sheathe the sword, but there was no sheath at his side and he ended up putting the blade awkwardly under his arm. His lower lip wobbled a little. "I thought you were serious... It was such a lovely idea. And I just thought of the perfect title, too. Because you know, the Knight of the Old Cup-Ringed Coffee Table just wouldn't do. So I thought, how about an Order of the Garter Snake? Like the Most Noble Order of the Garter? You see, it's funny because it's a kind of snake, but the garter is actually a symbol of chivalry for that order, so it would mean something like _chivalrous snake_. And it's not about protecting the realm, not in these times. You wouldn't expect a knighted actor or a writer to have a military duty to defend the country, would you? It's for the merits... and... and you deserve it, Crowley..."

Crowley felt a cold trickle of guilt down the back of his neck as Aziraphale's gaze dropped to the floor. "Oh hell," he grumbled under his breath, "don't do that. Not the _eyes_ , have mercy."

The angel had put actual thought into this knighting business, and Crowley had gone and turned his nose up at it. _Chivalrous snake_ \- pffft, well he certainly didn't feel like one at the moment.

"It's not that I - look, it's just - it's not really _me_ , is it? All that ceremonial stuff. That's right up your alley, that is. I'm happy enough just to..." _be with you,_ he thought, heart in his throat. "Just to be myself," he said instead.

Aziraphale looked a bit hurt and confused now. "I don't understand how knighting you would make you less yourself, Crowley. It's just a title. Does the title make me less myself?" the angel bit his lip and then sat down heavily.

He accidentally poked a hole in the sofa since he forgot about the sword. He mended it with a quick miracle and put the sword on his knees.

"Oh dear, what if you're right... it could make me less myself, couldn't it?" Aziraphale murmured. "If I let it get to my head. Like Louis XIV or one of those pharaohs... I suppose it's rather like a… oh, what's the thing called that the crustaceans have? A crust? It's rather like a crust, or a shell - a barrier I suppose, is the point I'm making - and one can become stuck inside of it and unable to interact with the world, and I don't want that. If that does happen, then I'd like for you to be _inside of_ that shell, so you can help me get out..." the angel frowned a little. "That... sounded wrong, didn't it?"

"Yes," said Crowley sitting down beside him, "but I liked the bit where you called yourself a crusty old crustacean. Look. I'm not going anywhere, you know. I don't need anything from you to stay. I'll be like... a barnacle. Stuck on your shell. How about that? A limpet or something. No getting rid of me that way." Crowley huffed out an amused breath, "Pffft, we've _definitely_ been watching too many nature documentaries."

"We have," Aziraphale agreed and shifted the sword further away from Crowley. "I just don't understand why you're so adverse to all titles, my dear," he said with a slight reprimand in his voice. "I think a Knight is a nice one, not too pretentious, but it clearly shows that I value you. I want to show that I value you... I've had to hide it long enough. What is this new job good for if I can't show it?"

Crowley's heart was in his throat. They didn't usually talk about this stuff - well, _out loud_ anyway. It was there in lingering looks, and inside jokes, and mutual understandings. "You don't need to show it, you idiot," he said, gently, "I know. I've always known _that_. Don't have to get all soppy on me."

Aziraphale sat patiently waiting for him to continue.

Crowley groaned, tilting his head back on the sofa cushions, "All right, listen. In my experience, nothing good ever came from authority," he explained. "I'm not worried about all this King stuff going to your head, because you're you. You're a guardian at heart. But I've always done my best work under the radar, and I'll always associate fancy titles with being a bit of an arse, you know?" He gave the angel a considering look, because he was never really able to deny him anything. "Ffff. If you really want me to be a knight, then I'll be a knight... I'll be whatever you need me to be."

It seemed that Aziraphale was already regretting his attempt at straightforwardness - the title gave him some confidence he wanted to try out, but it wasn't enough for this. He twisted the edge of his vest in his hands.

"I just... I thought it would be nice to show that we're friends, now that it's not dangerous to do so. But if you want to stay under the radar, then you probably shouldn't continue to hang around me..." he murmured. "I just don't want you to be exposed at my side like this and have no backup of your own authority, having to rely on mine all the time. I must confess, it's making me a bit nervous. But I won't give you a title against your will. If you ever want it, you will tell me, won't you?"

He sent the sword away with a snap of his fingers and got up.

Crowley banged his head on the sofa back. Well, he'd definitely put his foot in it now, hadn't he?

"I didn't mean - of course I want to hang around you - you - _ngggh_ \- you're so bloody _difficult_." He rubbed his hands up his face, dislodging his sunglasses. Then he peeked through his fingers at Aziraphale. "Let's just... put a pin in it, okay? Talk about it later."

Aziraphale nodded, putting on a bit forced smile. "Yes. I'm sorry. I won't nag you about it again. Let's go, hmm? There's a Hell to run, we shouldn't lollygag."

The journey to Hell seemed much faster this time, even though Crowley actually did his best to drive semi-conscientiously so as to not upset Aziraphale any more than he already had.

He gripped the steering wheel. All right, so they'd had a bit of a tiff, it wasn't _that_ bad. It wasn't 'let's not see each other for a few centuries' bad. They'd work something out.

For his part, Crowley was focused on how he could make it up to the angel - this whole title business had obviously meant something to him. Maybe Crowley could come clanking into Hell in that awful _Black Knight_ getup, and declare himself the King's knight in shining armour in front of all the gathered demons, that might get a giggle out of Aziraphale at least.

Before Crowley knew it, they were descending on the escalator.

They didn't bother announcing themselves and headed straight towards the fourth circle, the one that Dagon was troubled about.

Instead of the fighting that Aziraphale expected after his experience with Ob and the other demons from the sixth circle, the general mood here seemed to be apathy. It wasn't even sloth or laziness. The demons just stood in their places like abandoned puppets after a children's play. Somehow, it looked much scarier than the fight had.

Aziraphale was taken aback by that sight for a moment. It reminded him of something.

The 19th century. No Adversary to thwart and then get drunk with. Nothing to look forward to, just an indefinite expanse of time, stretching ahead pointlessly because he had driven his best friend away, and it was better that way, better for Crowley's own safety, but...

He shuddered and glanced at Crowley to assure himself the demon was there and not going anywhere or intending to take a long-term nap despite the little disagreement they had.

Crowley gave him a small encouraging smile.

Reassured, Aziraphale shook his head at the demons. "Nothing to do after Armageddon has been rescheduled, hmm?" he murmured. "Not to worry, my dears. I know _exactly_ what you need."

And then he went among the apathetic creatures and started talking to them.

* * *

By the end of the day, the fourth circle of Hell was getting passable at the gavotte.

Aziraphale didn't call Crowley to dance with them. He looked at the demon a few times, but it seemed that he didn't want to force him into anything right now, be it a title or a dance.

Crowley, for his part, was somewhat incapacitated at the sight of the angel dancing.

It was mesmerising.

He'd been unable to tear his gaze away and had leaned on the wall because his legs felt a bit wobbly. From his vantage point he had watched the demons and their King for a good few hours, pretending to be absorbed in his phone and taking a few sneaky videos for later. He was endlessly grateful that Aziraphale didn't ask for any help, Crowley didn't think he could move at all after seeing the angel perform a few high kicks.

Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying himself, so much so that he was practically shining.

The demons took to the dancing easily, hell, maybe they should transform one of the pits into an underground disco? With any luck, he'd be able to wrangle Aziraphale into a boogie later, something with a bit more rhythm to it.

"Interesting," sounded somewhere from Crowley's left side, the words accompanied by the unmistakable stench of poo. "I thought a King was supposed to be majestic... not make a fool of himself."

Crowley raised an eyebrow; were they not looking at the same thing? Aziraphale looked majestic as fuck.

"What do you want, Hastur?" he drawled, hopefully sounding disinterested, and not half as unnerved as he felt. "Fancy joining in? Showing them a few moves?"

"Maybe I could," Hastur said in a low voice. "If I had a dancing partner. But someone killed him, you know? Have a nice day with your would-be-king, Crawly..."

With that, Hastur blended back into the shadows and went off to lurk somewhere else.

 _Well,_ thought Crowley, _that was a bit bloody ominous, wasn't it?_

He hurried to Aziraphale's side, paranoid that a bunch of maggots might pop out of the floor and carry the angel off.

Aziraphale smiled in pleasant surprise when he saw Crowley approaching. "Would you like to join us after all, my dear? Come, I'll show you the steps, it's quite easy..."

Oh _shit_. Crowley didn't think he could take dancing with the angel here, with so many witnesses - if those plump hands came anywhere near him to guide his steps, he was certain he'd set himself on fire. But after Hastur's threat, he wasn't going to leave the angel's side, either. A bit of a stalemate situation.

"No! No no no _no_ \- I mean, you've already got it handled, haven't you? Uh. Not really my scene, all this. I like things a bit more modern. Could do with some lasers and a smoke machine if you ask me," he craned his neck to look up at the ceiling, "Hey, there's a thought."

Aziraphale followed his look towards the ceiling. "Would you like that?" he asked. "I admit that's not really my scene in turn, I don't know the steps for bebop; but if you want to have a go, you're welcome."

"Yeah?" the demon grinned, "all right then."

Crowley's version of dancing was as different to Aziraphale's as night was to day. It involved a great deal more _hip gyrating_ for one thing. And it wasn't that Crowley was particularly good at it, but he certainly had a lot of confidence.

"You lot don't look up for jumping about," he said of the demons, who were still linked together by the arms and probably wondering what the bleeding hell was going on. And that was fair. "Why don't I teach you all the Macarena? That's an easy one." And it involved no touching whatsoever, with the added bonus of a bunch of steps to memorise which Aziraphale might find rewarding.

Crowley snapped and the room lit up with coloured lights.

"Angel, you in?"

"Macarena? Aren't those the little round cakes?" Aziraphale asked, confused a bit. "Well, a dance named after a cake doesn't sound so bad. And I should lead by example, so... very well, can you show us the steps, dear?"

Crowley did. With vigour.

He knew he wasn't imagining the blush on the angel's cheeks when he got to the hip wiggly bit at the end. He might've put a bit more effort into it than was strictly necessary.

"And then you do a jump turn to the right, and do it all over again," he instructed, triumphantly, hands on his hips.

It took a while of intense focus for Aziraphale to get the moves correctly, and his hip wiggle was definitely nowhere near Crowley's, more resembling the little movement Aziraphale used to do when excited about something. He looked quite proud of himself though when he did the jump turn finalising the sequence.

Crowley grinned at him, "That's it! Knew you'd be a natural. But maybe could give it a bit more of _this_ -" he swung his hips in a wide salacious curve. "See? Go on, you try."

The other demons watched, wondering if this was some bizarre mating custom they'd inadvertently got caught in the middle of.

In some ways, they weren't wrong.

"Good _Lord_ , Crowley!" Aziraphale shook his head, a blush rising on his cheeks again. "I don't think I can reproduce that, and I'm not even going to try. And I'm not even talking about the _text_ of this thing. Cheating on your boyfriend with whomever has the best dance moves, really?" He thought for a moment, probably not wanting to be entirely critical of Crowley's pick of a musical piece. "I like that everyone is doing the same moves, though. It gives a sense of belonging to a group instead of competing."

Crowley rolled his eyes, fondly. "You would like that bit. Anyway, don't listen to the lyrics, angel! No one listens to the lyrics, it's all about the _rhythm_."

"What about _melody_?" Aziraphale sighed. "All right, all right, just _rhythm_ , I understand, yes. And also, it seems, moving your hips like you have no bones in them. Alright, well. Let's try it, shall we?"

They tried it. It went surprisingly well.

A few demons got mixed up and none of them were facing the right way round by the end, but there were no deaths and Crowley counted that as a win. He did feel a smidge of guilt though - it was his fault the poor angel had been subjected to a hundred hip-jiggling demons, which is more than anyone should have to witness, ever.

Crowley had situated himself to the side of the angel, and upon turning left he was afforded the view of Aziraphale's fluffy white hair, sloping shoulders and back. And also, coincidentally, the sight of Aziraphale's bottom wiggling to the beat.

He hadn't _meant_ to look, it was just _there_ , all right? Hard to bloody miss it. Especially when it was doing _that_. Might as well enjoy it. He suspected Aziraphale was doing the same thing anyway, when the angel was behind him - well, he put in a bit of extra oomph, just in case.

Purely statistically speaking, there indeed seemed to be a higher probability of the angel making a wrong turn or forgetting a move when facing Crowley's backside than any other direction.

After the dance, Aziraphale took leave of the demons, letting them pick their own dance music, expecting (quite correctly) to see a rather convoluted mix of the gavotte and Macarena when he returned the next day. Before leaving, he stopped to say hi to the cricket enthusiasts in the sixth circle and to any demon from the ones he freed the other day.

Then he asked Crowley to take him to the bookshop, where he, as he made it rather clear, intended to listen to some _proper_ music and have some time to himself. Whether that had anything to do with demonic wiggles (either of a particular demon or the sum of them), remained neither proved nor disproved.

Crowley acquiesced with a grandiose bow and teasing smile, and they made their way upstairs. He drove Aziraphale through London at a very reasonable pace, and only honked his horn a few times to irritate a cyclist that wouldn't bloody get a move on.

He parked the Bentley on the curb outside the bookshop with a bump.

"Well," he said, and then didn't say anything else.

"Right," Aziraphale cleared his throat. "So, we're going there again tomorrow? It was rather nice today. All the... the dancing. And... and the dancing. I said that already, didn't I? Dancing... ah... _together_ , I meant." He got out of the car quickly. "I'll go now. To listen to some proper music. Mind how you go."

Crowley leant his elbow out the window, watching the flustered angel with a small smile playing across his face, "You ever need a dancing partner, you know where I am," he winked, "enjoy your evening, angel."

"Yes, thank you. You too," Aziraphale said and disappeared into the shop.

A few moments later, the tones of Schubert's Symphony No. 9 in C Major flooded the space. If there was a large mirror involved later, and an angel trying to get his hip wiggles just right... well, a certain demon didn't need to know that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please look at [this picture](https://goosetooths.tumblr.com/post/631893364689829889/hi-i-have-no-explanation-for-the-following-thats) of Crowley dancing Macarena by goosetooths. We found it after writing this chapter and nearly lost it.


	9. Chapter 9

In the following days, Aziraphale visited all circles of Hell and got to know a lot of its denizens. He talked to them and listened and cared for their opinions. The third circle had now been fashioned into a library. The seventh one was a host to an exhibition of an impressive collection of regency snuff boxes. There was a wine cellar in one of the former torture rooms and a lovely row of benches by the sulphur pits. Someone swore they saw a duck there, but it was most likely just a Hellhound pup taking a swim. (Hellhound pups loved Aziraphale. They wagged their tails as soon as they sensed his aura and gave him puppy eyes until he scratched them behind the ears.)

Other changes were implemented as well: nothing too momentous, as of yet, since Aziraphale didn't want to exercise his authority before the coronation and before the vote about how much of it he should have. But the chairs seemed to have become actually comfortable to sit on, the lights didn't flicker in infuriating patterns anymore and the pipes mostly stopped leaking except the places where it contributed to the genius loci and was actually enjoyed by the demons - Aziraphale soon learnt that the olfactory senses of some of the creatures of Hell were wired a bit differently than it was customary for angels or humans. He made sure to never judge based on it.

The date of the coronation was set and Dagon was getting increasingly tense as it neared. ("There are no records about the proper ceremony! Does anyone remember the correct phrasing of the announcements? Does anyone remember anything here?") Despite that, things were getting more or less ready as the date approached.

There was just a slight disagreement when Aziraphale was approached by a demon with a mule head and peacock tail who introduced himself as Adrammelech, the supervisor of the King's wardrobe.

"A cloak from the skin of your enemies, your Majesty? It's very traditional!"

"For the third time, _no!_ I told you I'm not not going to include any body parts of my enemies in my wardrobe."

"How about a necklace of teeth, then?"

"I just said, no body parts..."

"Oh, but they wouldn't be from your enemies, your Majesty! The Hellhound pups are just losing their milk teeth..."

" _No._ "

The demon seemed to be on the verge of tears by then. "Then what _do_ you want, your Lowness… err… Highness. Angelness?"

Aziraphale sighed, feeling compassion towards the unhappy demon. "Look, there are a lot of ways to look majestic without wearing any body parts. Have you heard about lace? Brocade?"

The demon's face lit up. "Oooh, say no more! I know what you mean!"

Aziraphale was a bit worried about meeting him the next day, unsure if Adrammelech actually did know or if he would be met with some horrendous creation and having to disappoint him by refusing to wear it.

It turned out, the demon actually knew what Aziraphale meant, even though Satan had preferred a different line of fashion. The clothes that awaited Aziraphale were indeed majestic: delicate lace and pale brocade with a subtle pattern of flames, and a rather impressive cloak in the shape of wings. Aziraphale was really looking forward to wearing it.

The day before the coronation he confessed to feeling a bit nervous and spent the evening drinking with Crowley. In the morning, he sobered up and went to an appointment with his barber, wanting to look his best for the important occasion. He asked Crowley to meet him two hours later by the front entrance of the Heaven & Hell building.

Two hours later, the area around the entrance of that building was suspiciously angel-less.

Two hours and five minutes later, Dagon rushed up the elevator and nearly bumped into Crowley.

"Where is he?" she hissed.

Crowley didn't _know_.

For the past five minutes, he had been scouring the street for any sign of the angel, getting more and more worried with every passing second.

Aziraphale was never late.

Oh fuck, oh bollocks - he shouldn't have left him on his own.

Anything could have happened - it was his _coronation_ for Christ's sake, anyone opposed to Aziraphale's reign would strike before he was declared King, and - and when the angel was by himself because his idiot best friend had buggered off and _left_ him - oh, shitshit _shit_!

He could just see Aziraphale now, calling him a fussy old serpent, and insisting that he was quite capable of looking after himself, thank you. He hardly needed a chaperone all of the time.

Crowley whirled around, heart thumping in his ears. "Is everyone else accounted for?" he snapped at Dagon, "is anyone else missing?"

The Lord of Files scoffed at the absurd question. "Everyone accounted for? There are ten million demons, and nobody uses the bloody sign-in book. Have _you_ ever used the sign-in book, Crowley? Am I supposed to keep track of ten million demons now because you can't keep track of one _blessed_ angel? Where did you last see him? Did he tell you where he intended to be?"

"He - he went to the barbers," spluttered Crowley, and at her uncomprehending glare, he growled, "it's a place for getting your hair done, he wanted to look nice - fffff, never _mind!_ Why am I wasting time talking to you? I'll go look for him."

He turned to sprint to the Bentley, mind springing off into a million nightmarish scenarios that were entirely Crowley's fault. What kind of idiot -

"Waitwaitwait!" He snapped back around, desperation evident in his eyes - the one demon most openly opposed to Aziraphale had been - " _Hastur!_ Was Hastur down there?"

Dagon stared at him for a moment. She blessed under her breath. "I haven't seen him today. You go check wherever the angel went, I'll try to find Hastur. You learn anything, just curse my name and I'll get to you. And Crowley," she frowned at him, "don't mention it to anyone Downstairs. We don't know whom we can trust. Well, nobody, obviously, we're demons. But we don't know whom we can mistrust less and it doesn't give a best kingly vibe, going missing like that just before the coronation. I'll try to stall but it can't take too long."

Crowley nodded, trying not to let the blatant panic show on his face. He didn't trust anyone in Hell anyway, never had, the only person he trusted in the whole of existence was Aziraphale.

Fuck, the only person who _mattered_ was Aziraphale. And he was missing.

Crowley didn't even know how he got into the car, by miracle or otherwise, he only registered the fact that he was suddenly speeding towards Aziraphale's barbers so fast that the dial on the speedometer had snapped off and there were streaks of impossibly bright light scraping at the windows.

The Bentley flew under his hands - wheels screeching, tyres melting, big black plumes of smoke belching off into the London air. She _roared_.

Almost in no time at all, the Bentley's brakes screeched in front of an antique barber's shop. And it wasn't one of those that try to look "old timey" to be cool. This one had a facade with a blue awning that said "established 1805". The barber was a short man in a well fitting brown suit who opened the door of the shop upon hearing what sounded like a traffic accident in progress.

But then he noticed the smoking Bentley and a lanky ginger getting out of it. He took one look at him and said: "Ah, you must be Mr. Crowley. So nice to finally meet you."

Crowley ignored the polite greeting entirely - something which Aziraphale would have apologised profusely to the poor man for, and then submitted the demon to one of his most disappointed glares - but the angel wasn't here, and Crowley was terrified.

"Aziraphale!" he yelled, barging into the barber's shop, and eyeing everything in sight. He sniffed. Traces of Aziraphale were everywhere. His shining presence left an impression on everything he touched. But there was no other sign of him, the place was empty save for a few wide-eyed customers half way through a shave.

Crowley shoved his hands into his hair and pulled.

He rallied on the owner, baring his fangs. "Mr Fell - _where is he?_ "

The barber didn't look intimidated by the fangs, but his face showed concern and a bit of confusion with the question. "He left half an hour ago," he said. "He said it was a very special occasion, and he didn't want to be late, so I assumed you two finally... Well, I thought he would be with you."

Crowley didn't have time to contemplate whatever the barber had assumed. Half an hour - anything could happen in half an hour - the whole bloody world could collapse in half an hour.

"Shitshitshit _shit,"_ he hissed with so much feeling that his eyes began to water. He legged it outside again.

_Think,_ he shouted at himself, _just think! That stupid, stupid angel - if he's - if he's -_ Crowley squeezed his eyes shut against the thought. _All right, just - calm down. Think. Where would I bugger off to if I was a stupid, wonderful, idiotic -_

He snatched up his phone and called the bookshop, launching himself back into the Bentley as he pressed the mobile to his ear and listened as it rang. The demon cast his senses out, trying to sense the angel's whereabouts, but there were lingering traces of him everywhere in London. It was too bloody hard to pinpoint Aziraphale in a place that he loved so much.

The phone rang without a response and the radio played _Another one bites the dust_ :

_"There are plenty of ways that you can hurt a man_

_And bring him to the ground_

_You can beat him, you can cheat him_

_You can treat him bad and then leave him when he's down..._ Crowley?" Dagon's voice interrupted the song. "You found the angel yet? 'Cause Hastur is missing and nobody has seen him since yesterday."

Fucking _great_. Of course Hastur was missing - of bloody course - it had to be _Hastur_.

Crowley grit his teeth, flinging his phone onto the passenger seat and barrelling down the road to the bookshop.

"I haven't found him - don't you think I would've called if I'd bloody found him? He wasn't at the barbers." He ground his heel on the accelerator, "I'm headed to the bookshop!"

"Hurry," Dagon snarled. "I can't stall much longer, they're getting impatient."

Crowley didn't need to be told to hurry, though. He was almost at the bookshop when Dagon ended the call. And inside that familiar space, he could indeed sense the presence of evil - and it wasn't just the Jeffrey Archer books.

The Bentley's door was flung open before they'd even pulled to a stop, and Crowley raced up the steps to the bookshop door with his heart in his throat.

The doors opened for him in a burst of terrified magic.

He could feel Hastur's presence clearly now. He could also hear sobs from the back of the shop.

" _Aziraphale!_ "

* * *

"Any moment now... Any moment," Dagon proclaimed toward the impatiently waiting demons. "But before the King arrives, we should... uhm... make sure that everything is perfect. The floors should be perfectly clean. Are the floors perfectly clean? He's an angel, we can't have him dirty his kingly cloak as it drags on the floor. So what are you waiting for? Get to scrubbing!"

The hall was already cleaner than any place in Hell had ever been since its creation, which was to say, not that clean at all really. But still - a valiant effort had been made to accommodate their new King and his preferences towards good hygiene practices. The demons dutifully skittered away at the request, dragging dirty mops and unfortunate imps over the floor to further 'clean' it.

Prince Beelzebub had donned a new sash in honour of the occasion and had sprouted an abundance of impressive disfiguring facial boils overnight. The fly atop their head was perched eagerly, wings buzzing with agitation.

They tapped their fingers against the arm of the chair they were occupying, scowling deeply.

The angel was _late_. The demons were growing restless. If Aziraphale didn't turn up soon they'd have another riot on their hands, and with so many accumulated demons, and the added heightened tension, such a thing might just serve to be the end of Hell itself.

"Dagon," they snapped coldly, "a word."

Dagon's gaze darted to the side as if she wanted to flee. Then she schooled her features into an expression that looked almost innocent. Not on a demon's face, of course, but it was as close as you could get. She approached Beelzebub dutifully. "Yes, my Lord?"

If anything, that look just made Beelzebub instantly suspicious. Their fly leaned forward, its red multifaceted eyes glowing intimidatingly.

"Where izzz he."

"He went to... uhm..." Dagon searched for the word Crowley used, "...to a barbarian! To get his hair done. It's taking a while, I guess. You know barbarians, always want to fight and drink mead..."

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes, trying to discern the truth. The angel was always talking about the benefits of being well-groomed, though the Prince did not fully understand such a thing. The more odiferous, bedraggled and unkempt, the better, in their opinion. Though, they supposed, a little style did not go amiss.

Still, it was unlike the angel to not show up on time. He was _organised_.

They waved a hand in the air, annoyed. "You have been in contact with the demon Crowley? Thozzze two are joined at the hip."

Dagon frowned in confusion. "Is that some new torture procedure or a mating ritual? Last time I saw Crowley they certainly weren't joined." A flash of annoyance showed on her face. "He let the angel go alone to that barbarian."

"Who cares what they get up to," said Beelzebub with a grimace. "I don't want to think about it."

They sat up, gaze sweeping over the assembled demons as the rest of what Dagon had said registered. Their eyes grew cold, and they pinned the Lord of the Files with a glare that could kill a lesser demon.

"You mean, the angel is unsupervizzzed?" they hissed under their breath, so as to not alert any potential eavesdroppers. "You don't _know_ where he is. What have you been keeping from me, Dagon."

Dagon winced a little under that gaze, but then straightened. "Yes. I don't know and Crowley doesn't know either. And Hastur is missing." There, it was out. She narrowed her eyes and revealed her sharp teeth. "A good occasion for him to prove himself," she snarled. "We can't have a king who can't handle himself against a Duke, can we?"

But privately, she thought about the library in the third circle and the appreciation of her filing system and with some surprise caught herself thinking it would be a pity to lose that now.

Beelzebub sank back into their chair, kneading their forehead. The fly massaged at their temples with its forelegs to alleviate some of the pressure building behind the Prince's eyes. "With any luck, they'll eliminate each other," they grumbled, without their usual sting.

There was nothing to be done about Hastur now, Dagon was right. The new King would need to defend himself against all manner of usurpers. It wasn't as if Beelzebub even _liked_ the angel, it was just that... he had been useful and surprisingly adept at handling things.

That was all.

If anything, Aziraphale was _tolerable_ at best. Yes. He was very _tolerable_.

"Regardless of the outcome, we will need to prepare for the inevitable uproar should the King not return. Already, they grow uneasy."

Dagon nodded gravely and pointed at a stain on the floor. "You mean to tell me that's a floor worthy of being walked on by a King?" she yelled at the nearest unhappy demon. "Don't slack off now, the King will be here soon! Do you want him to find such a mess when he arrives?"

* * *

Crowley flew like a darting black shadow through the bookshop, feet barely touching the floor in his haste. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. His eyes flitted over everything, for any sign of the angel. Everything was eerily still in its place - to the left, a stack of books ready to be sorted - a mug of cold cocoa on the desk - evidence of an angel interrupted.

As he neared the back of the shop, the sobs got louder and rather blood-chilling in their intensity and possessing a certain wailing quality that just couldn't be produced by a human throat.

"AZIRAPHALE?!" he yelled out again, and then he abruptly stopped at the entrance to the back room, eyes wide, and sunglasses sliding down his nose in shock.

He was met with the sight of Aziraphale. And Hastur.

Hastur was there. And also Aziraphale. It was rather hard to get his brain to compute what exactly was going on. He tried again.

Hastur. Aziraphale. Aziraphale. Hastur. Processing error.

They weren't in the throes of an epic battle, they weren't strangling one another, or lobbing holy water and hellfire about the place, they were - they looked -

… kind of cosy?

Hastur was... He was sobbing. Leaning on the angel.

And Aziraphale. Was comforting him.

The angel looked up over Hastur's shoulder. "Oh, it's you Crowley? Please be a dear and make us a cup of tea, would you?"

_Wot._

"Cup of - cup of _tea_!" spluttered Crowley, throwing his hands up. "Cup of _bloody tea?!_ What the sodding _heaven_ is going on here?!"

Hastur heaved in a jagged breath and proceeded to bawl his eyes out all over Aziraphale's suit jacket, no doubt making a frightful mess. Demonic bodily fluids were no laughing matter, Aziraphale would be lucky if the mucus hadn't burned right through the material.

Hastur's wig had shifted slightly to reveal the frog beneath who also looked absolutely miserable, its webbed feet patted consolingly at Hastur's forehead with a wet slapping sound.

Crowley didn't understand. He was still jittery and to find Aziraphale right as rain, practically in the arms of the demon he'd thought had come to off him - it was all just a bit much really.

"Angel, I thought - I _thought_ -" he swallowed, heavily.

"Crowley, _please_..." Aziraphale gave him a look acknowledging that yes, he was aware that the situation probably appeared quite strange, but if Crowley could please refrain from commenting on it and just make that cup of tea, he would be very grateful.

But then his mind caught up with Crowley's expression and what he must have thought. "Oh. Wait. You thought... Oh. I'm so sorry. Just... make a cup for yourself too, would you? I can't right now. Then I'll explain."

Crowley looked between the two of them, still trying to make heads or tails out of the bizarre situation. Aziraphale looked fine though, apart from the dampened shoulder and clinging Duke of Hell.

He wasn't hurt, or in danger, except from the aforementioned caustic demonic mucus.

The angel seemed fine.

That was all that mattered.

Crowley nodded. He still didn't trust Hastur as far as he could throw him, but... tea. He could do tea. Tea, and then _explanations_.

He retreated to the kitchenette, hands shaking. Mugs. Kettle. Tap. Teabags. Hastur's snotty nose pressed into Aziraphale's shoulder. Eurgh. He plonked the mugs on a tray and went back to the room.

Hastur had calmed down a bit by then and was sitting on the sofa next to Aziraphale, clutching a lacy handkerchief that obviously wasn't his. He still sobbed occasionally, and Aziraphale patted his hand.

The angel looked a bit drained as well and he accepted the mug from Crowley's hands gratefully. "Here," he gave it to the Duke of Hell. "This will make you feel a bit better, I hope. Sugar?"

Hastur just downed the hot tea in a few gulps.

"Oh. Well. That works too," Aziraphale said and took the second mug for himself. He put two spoons of sugar into it, despite usually drinking it without. "Please sit down, my dear," he beckoned to Crowley.

Then he took a deep breath.

"You see... Hastur has been rather angry with you. And I can't say that I blame him, really."

The Duke nodded and blew his nose into the handkerchief.

"Yes, well..." Aziraphale continued, a bit thrown off by the sound. "He lost his lurking partner. Right in front of his eyes. I explained to him that it was a self-defence from your side, and nothing personal. But he had to witness that, and nobody in Hell has even asked him how he feels. Can you believe that?"

Hastur nodded again and sobbed.

Aziraphale put a hand around his shoulders. "There, there... see, Crowley? I can't be angry with him for seeking an outlet for his grief in revenge, when no other way was offered to him. So, yes, he might have attempted to attack me a little, but I just asked him why he was doing so, and how he was feeling and... well." He made a gesture encompassing the whole room as if to indicate the situation that Crowley witnessed when he arrived.

Crowley didn't know what to say.

Trust Aziraphale to get a murderous vengeful demon, who was intent on exacting said murderous revenge, to open up and talk about his feelings over a cup of tea.

Was there anything he couldn't do?

Crowley awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. Look, he _wasn't_ sorry for defending himself against the very real, very dangerous threat that the two Dukes had presented - and he had no doubt that if Hastur or Ligur had got their demonic mitts on him it wouldn't have been a bloody picnic for him either - but...

Hastur looked pretty pathetic right now. And Crowley knew how that felt, down to the core of him. Until now, he hadn't fully thought about the fact that other demons had feelings. They vehemently denied anything of the sort, saying it was weak and disgusting and entirely too human. But it was obvious that they did, of course they bloody did. It was just easier to pretend they didn't.

Hastur had lost his partner, and Crowley only knew the tiniest smidge of what that felt like. He'd somehow managed to get Aziraphale back within a few hours, that had admittedly seemed like eternity.

Hastur was alone.

All right, maybe he was a _little bit_ sorry.

... Still didn't trust Hastur, though. The Duke had come here with the intention to harm the person Crowley loved most in the world. Aziraphale had forgiven him, because that's what Aziraphale _did_. But Crowley needed to know the angel was safe where the other demon was concerned.

Crowley eyed the way they were sat, the lingering touch of Aziraphale's hand on Hastur's shoulder. He downed his scalding black tea, squinting at the Duke.

_Get your own angel. This one's mine._

Aziraphale sighed. "It's complicated between the two of you, I know. I'm not going to force you to get along or anything like that. But I think it would do you good to have a nice talk, at some point. Not right now, though. Right now we need to calm our nerves a bit."

He took a sip of the tea, and it seemed that he was not exempt of that statement, either. There was some tension in his shoulders that suggested getting Hastur to abandon his murderous intent and open up wasn't as easy as he made it sound.

He looked at Crowley apologetically. "I'm sorry dear, for worrying you. I didn't mean to."

Crowley recalled his sheer unadulterated blind bloody panic.

"Wasn't worried," he muttered.

He'd been _distraught_. There was a difference. The angel had scared the ever-living shit out of him, _and_ he'd been late to his own bloody coronation

\- oh, _shit_ -

"You - crown - King - ceremony!" He managed to garble out.

"Hmm? Oh, right! Of course... the coronation!" Aziraphale murmured. "I almost forgot..." He looked at Hastur. "Do you need a moment longer?"

Hastur sobbed again, clearly touched by Aziraphale's priorities. He blew his nose once more. "N-No, you really should go now. Can't miss your own coronation."

Aziraphale finished his tea and stood up. "Right. Could you take us there, my dear?" he asked Crowley.

"Us?" Crowley's eyes flicked over to the Duke. There was no way Hastur was getting in his car.

"Us?" Hastur asked at the same time, his face revealing pure terror at the thought of entering that car again.

"Oh, well. Maybe it would be better if we split?" Aziraphale asked. "Will you be okay on your own?"

Hastur nodded, relieved.

Aziraphale offered him his hand. The Duke took it and got up.

"Very well," Aziraphale said. "Let's go, it's really impolite to let everyone wait so long."

Once Hastur had finally buggered off, Crowley bundled the angel into the front seat of the Bentley and got in himself. But he didn't turn the engine on. He turned to Aziraphale, letting his gaze rake over the soft features of the angel, because holy crap, he really thought he might've lost him there for a moment.

He could have, if Aziraphale wasn't so bloody kind and understanding.

Crowley wanted to reach out and touch, just to make sure that Aziraphale was real.

"I know time's of the essence and everything," he murmured, "but... you sure you're okay? Hastur didn't... _do_... anything, did he?"

Aziraphale smiled a bit nervously. "No, no. It's all tickety-boo." He ran his hand through his hair.

At Crowley's pointed look, he shrunk a bit, knowing he won't get away with a lie - the demon knew him too well.

"We... uhm... had a bit of a fight. He attacked me before we could talk properly. We hurt each other a bit. But then we were able to clear things up and I healed both of us, so, no harm done. Tickety-boo."

Ohhh Crowley was _definitely_ going to break Hastur's nose the next time he saw him.

That absolute _bastard_. He was going to _end_ him.

He released the seat, where he'd accidentally punctured the soft leather with his claws, reigning himself in by taking a deep breath. Aziraphale didn't need his anger right now. He'd save it for that twat of a Duke.

His claws softened back into slender fingers, and Crowley used them to cup at Aziraphale's cheek before he could change his mind. He tilted the angel's face this way and that, gently, trying to discern if there was any damage left over.

The angel was clearly shaken, but there was nothing physically wrong, thankfully. Crowley let go, offering a tentative smile. "Bet you handed his arse to him, eh?"

Aziraphale leant into the touch before he could think about it, looking a bit disappointed when it withdrew. "Well... I admit he was rather worse off than me," he murmured, apparently not proud of that. "So there's no reason to be angry with him, really. He said he was sorry. And he meant it, I can tell."

"Right," said Crowley, completely unconvinced. "Well, that's nice of him, isn't it. Long as he apologised for trying to kill you."

Aziraphale sighed, tiredly. "I said I'm not going to force you to get along or anything like that. He has his grudges towards you and you towards him. But he promised he won't act based on them. Could you do the same, please? For me?"

"Ehfffffff," Crowley groaned, making a face. He was unable to say no to the angel. And Aziraphale knew that, didn't he? "Ssssss. Fine. But if he tries anything else, that's it. If he so much as lays one grubby finger on you..."

"Oh, thank you, my dear," Aziraphale smiled at him, brightly and genuinely, as if Crowley indulging his request had erased all the strain of the encounter with Hastur.

"Would you mind driving us where we are supposed to be now?" he asked, his mood clearly improved. "I fear we're really skirting the line of being fashionably late here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About [Adrammelech](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adrammelech)


	10. Chapter 10

Aziraphale and Crowley were taking a bit more time in getting to Hell than Hastur, who found the nearest bit of unpaved ground and sank straight through it.

"Oh shit..." Dagon muttered when she saw the Duke entering the hall.

Beelzebub sat up in their seat.

They had hoped...

 _Zzzzzzzzzzz_. It didn't _matter_ what they had hoped. Demons had no business _hoping_. That stupid angel must have rubbed off on them, if they were doing something as foolish as that. Perhaps it was for the best that there was no sign of him, that Duke Hastur had returned victorious.

Though, on closer inspection with their multifaceted fly eyes, Beelzebub could see that Hastur didn't seem very gleeful from their act of revenge.

The Duke looked awful, even more so than usual. His face was blotchy, and eyes red, maybe from the sheer exertion of his hellish powers? Perhaps Aziraphale had fought him with everything he had. But it seemed the angel had failed.

Beelzebub grit their teeth, their voice ringing out. "Duke Haszztur. Nice of you to finally join us."

Hastur looked up at Beelzebub. "You... you don't mean it, do you?" he asked with a suppressed sob.

Beelzebub didn't know what to say to that.

* * *

Meanwhile Adrammelech, who had been pacing the royal dressing room impatiently, looked up at the sound of hurried steps, his peacock tail opening. "Your Majesty!" he exclaimed as soon as a slightly winded Aziraphale appeared in the door with Crowley in tow. "Come, there's no time!"

It only took a moment of a peacock & mule blur dashing around a dazed angel to transform a bookseller in a slightly singed and damp coat into a ruler in full regalia.

Crowley hadn't seen Aziraphale's outfit before now. The angel had his fittings in private, and though he'd complained about Addramalech's fondness for severed bits of enemies, Aziraphale hadn't actually described his royal get-up in any detail.

As such, Crowley was completely unprepared for the sight.

 _Oh, no. Oh, fuck,_ he thought to himself, yellow eyes wide behind his sunglasses. _I'm doomed._

Aziraphale was... well, he was the most beautiful thing Crowley had seen in his whole damned life. Not that he wasn't normally, just - this was - it _suited_ him. All the bits and bobs. The lacey bits. The bloody cape. All of it. He looked like he was supposed to look like this, he looked cared for.

Crowley just stood there with his mouth open.

Aziraphale looked down at his clothes, a bit self-conscious under Crowley's intent gaze. "Uhm... a bit too much, isn't it?" he asked, wringing his hands. "Too pretentious?"

"No, you're perfect," said Crowley, "I mean, er - _it's_ perfect. I like the cape."

Adrammelech tutted, fussing about the angel's ankles to make sure the fabric lay in the correct way. "It's not a cape, it's a _cloak_."

Crowley barely listened, he only had eyes for Aziraphale. "You… you look like a King."

Aziraphale gave him a smile that was shy at first but got brighter with every second. "In that case, I think I should go and be one," he said and stepped out of the dressing room.

Crowley followed after him and Adrammelech closed the procession, with an admiring look that was similar to Crowley's, but was directed more at the attire than the person wearing it.

* * *

In the throne room, Beelzebub and Dagon were just quietly discussing how to best dissolve the crowd, without the situation escalating to rebellion, when a hush fell on the audience. Dagon's jaw remained hanging open when she followed the gazes turning towards the door.

There was the angel. Bloody late, but that didn't matter. He looked kingly. He walked straight and proud. The long cloak trailed after him on the ground and she was suddenly very glad they gave the floor a second go at scrubbing. Some of the demons cheered when he passed them. Hastur did, too.

Having yet to remember to close her mouth, Dagon looked at Beelzebub.

The Prince of Hell felt a grin pull at their lips. Well, what do you know, it looked like the angel had pulled it off after all. Fuck knows how, but he was here.

They stood up, acknowledging Aziraphale with a nod. Their fly dipped its head down into the unruly dark hair, its wings lying flat.

It was time to make this official, _finally_.

They raised an eyebrow at Dagon who was still open mouthed. "Szzztart the ceremony before anything else goes wrong," they hissed, "and close your mouth before you catch flies." Which, considering who they were, was a pretty threatening thing to say.

Dagon snapped her mouth closed immediately and gave a sign to a ceremonial demon, one of the Ushers.

The little round creature banged its staff on the ground three times. "The coronation of the second King of Hell, the angel Aziraphale..." there was a slight pause where honorifics would be listed, but despite the fact that several had been suggested by Dagon and other demons, Aziraphale hadn't wanted any, and so the Usher moved on, "...may now begin."

The hall went as quiet as a hall filled with demons can.

Dagon nodded. "Claim your place, Aziraphale," she said clearly.

Aziraphale walked through the free space surrounded by crowds on both sides like Moses through the Red Sea. The faces staring at him might have scared him a few months ago, but now they were familiar. Some bowed as he passed, others grinned encouragingly.

The initial nervousness of facing the crowd left him now and he was enjoying it, practically shining in his impressive clothes. He ascended a staircase leading to the first dais, where Beelzebub's throne was and then continued up a few more stairs, towards an even more impressive throne. Two thrones, actually - one bigger and one smaller.

He paused at that for a moment, because nothing like that has been discussed with him, but he assumed it may be some test and he couldn't afford to hesitate. Confidently, he walked towards the bigger throne and took his place on it.

The crown on his head appeared in all its majesty. It seemed to have adjusted to its bearer over time, as it looked less like horns now and more like flaming swords, combined with a halo. The crowd burst into cheers.

Hell had a King again.

It was that simple. The convoluted and complicated ceremonies were for things of lesser importance. The more important the occasion, the more simple and straightforward the ceremony.

"Behold your King!" Dagon exclaimed and bowed. Like from an epicentre, a wave of bowing spread across the room.

Aziraphale let his eyes wander over the crowd, searching for Crowley.

Crowley swallowed, eyes wet.

Aziraphale looked right up there, didn't he? He looked like he belonged. It was all Crowley had ever wanted for him - not the King bit, that was completely unprecedented - but for the angel to be able to see himself the way Crowley did, for Aziraphale to finally be appreciated for what he was. It was about bloody time, really.

He deserved every cheer from the crowd, every whistle, every - bow?

Huh, look at that. The other demons around him were bowing. Crowley wondered if he should sweep down into a ridiculously complex affair, flapping his hand about his wrist, just to make the angel have to hide a laugh at his antics.

He locked eyes with Aziraphale. The angel seemed to have been searching for him, because when their eyes met, he beamed. And just like that, all pretence went out of Crowley's head.

He offered up a proud smile in return, and bent neatly at the waist.

After the bowing, the Usher's staff hit the ground three times again, demanding silence.

"The coronation of the Prince consort, the demon Crowley, the Serpent of Eden, the First Tempter, may now begin."

Dagon sighed. "Claim your place, Crowley," she said through gritted teeth.

Aziraphale gaped, obviously too surprised by this development to even form words.

The demons in front of Crowley parted, watching him expectantly.

Crowley blinked. His sunglasses slid all the way down to the tip of his nose as he stood there, uncomprehending.

Everyone was staring.

Wot.

 _What_.

What the actual _fuck_?!

One of the demons next to him - Ob, it looked like - elbowed him in the side, and jerked their head towards the thrones.

But Crowley couldn't move. He couldn't even think.

Prince consort. Prince _consort_. They thought - they thought he and Aziraphale - they thought - oh _shit._

He sought the angel's eyes, heart hammering in his mouth.

Aziraphale tried to convey to Crowley that he had no prior idea about this - the expression of pure panic in his face did it rather well. Somehow, he managed to close his mouth. Then he opened it again. No sound came out.

The demons were getting impatient or even annoyed (Dagon, especially).

"Er," Aziraphale managed, finally. "Ahem. I think there has been a... uhm... misunderstanding."

Dagon pivoted on her heel to face him. "What do you mean by misunderstanding?" she snapped and then quickly realized who she is talking to. "Err... your Majesty."

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "Yes. Well. I think that you are, somehow... getting the impression that we are married? But we're not..."

Now it was Dagon who stared at him. "You aren't married?"

Gasps of surprise could be heard from everywhere in the audience.

"How the hell are you not married?" Dagon insisted.

Aziraphale was now blushing deeply, trying to blend in with the surroundings - a rather difficult task when sitting on a throne in a prominent position and wearing a flaming crown.

"1020?" Dagon pressed on. "The Arrangement? You said it yourself..."

"Ah. Right. I'm so sorry for misleading you," Aziraphale smiled nervously. "You see... it was a purely work-related arrangement. Not... you know."

Dagon pressed her temples and took a few deep breaths before she turned her glare to Crowley. "Are you _sure_ you aren't married?" she asked.

 _Yes, I'm fucking sure!_ thought Crowley, burning with embarrassment. _I think we'd bloody know, wouldn't we?! If we were married? Be a bit bloody hard to forget that!_

But he didn't say that. He gritted his teeth against the words. Aziraphale looked uncomfortable enough as it was, and he wasn't about to add to it.

" _Not married_ ," he insisted, through lengthening fangs.

Married. Could you even imagine?

Well. He could actually. He could imagine it. And that was very dangerous territory. The angel cared for him, yeah, but _marriage?_ Aziraphale was pink-faced at the mere mention of it. And Crowley was content with the way things were.

Any way Aziraphale let him love him, that was more than enough.

He didn't need to be glowered at by a bunch of demons who didn't _understand_.

Dagon snarled in annoyance. "The way you act, how was I supposed to assume... ugh, let's just forget about it, yes? Everyone," she addressed the crowd, "the last part didn't happen, understood? You haven't seen anything! The bowing part was the last bit we did, yeah? Nothing after that. Anyone thinking otherwise can think about it while cleaning the Hellhound pens."

Aziraphale sighed. "No, nobody shall be punished for remembering this. I would just appreciate it if you wouldn't mention it, all right?"

"You've heard the King!" Dagon said, eager to put the matter behind. "Now let's get to the banquet you lazy lot!"

Beelzebub was the first to get to Aziraphale. They said something to him that was too quiet for Crowley to hear, and their expression was a stone faced as ever, but whatever it was made the angel relax a bit. Then together, they led the way into the hall beyond the double doors.

The Banquet Hall was decorated festively, it glimmered with candles and a lot less entrails than one would expect at such a large demonic gathering. Some of the things they were serving made Crowley's nose twitch in disgust, but there were plenty of the angel's favourites here too. Crowley had had a word with Dagon about acquiring some bits and bobs from Aziraphale's favourite haunts.

Still, it was a bizarre mismatch of things. Some of it oozed. Some of it tried to escape the table. And none of it Crowley found even _remotely_ appealing, especially at the moment.

He wanted nothing more than to slope off into the shadows at the earliest opportunity and thump his head against the nearest wall. But he had to see the angel was settled first, congratulate him, maybe. He looked up. Aziraphale looked completely swarmed by well wishers, Crowley might not be able to even get near him.

Aziraphale tried to locate him over the heads of the crowd, but there were too many heads, sometimes even belonging to a single body.

Between the congratulations, a demon came to subtly remove the second high chair that was at the head of the table next to Aziraphale's, but the thing squeaked against the floor loudly and captured everyone's attention, spoiling all attempts at subtlety.

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to hide then, and realising Crowley probably felt the same, he stopped looking for him - he was hardly going to drag Crowley into the centre of attention again, especially after the demon made it clear to him how he hated that.

 _Right,_ thought Crowley, _well. That was that, then._

He didn't think it could get any worse, but then the demon with the chair walked right past him, still dragging the bloody thing, and there were too many judging eyes, and Crowley suddenly couldn't stand to be there anymore.

It looked like he wasn't needed anyway, and he didn't want to spoil the fun by being gloomy. Let the angel enjoy this, he deserved it. Crowley gave him one last longing look and walked out of the hall.

He just needed a few moments to clear his head, that was all.

Aziraphale put on a cheerful face, giving Crowley his space. After some time and a good deal of convincing himself that Crowley would want him to, he managed to actually enjoy the feast. There were his favourite dishes and everyone appreciated him and listened with genuine interest when he talked.

He didn't stay in his high seat for long. He took his plate with desserts soon and left his place to mingle with the demons and talk a bit with those he knew and get to know others. He sat next to Hastur for a while, talking to him quietly. Later, he led a round of gavotte-macarena and took part in some game that involved a pantomime.

But as time passed, he found himself dearly hoping that Crowley would join him soon. As the feast progressed, the demons were freer in enjoying themselves and didn't watch the new King as much. It was easier then to slip away to look for Crowley, and that's what Aziraphale did.

Crowley hadn't moved too far from the Banquet Hall, just enough so that no one would be able to stumble across him while he had a minor breakdown.

He didn't really think Hastur would try anything - not if that smelly old prat knew what was good for him, anyway - but still, Crowley felt much better staying within running distance of Aziraphale. Just in case there was some other bloody awful thing that decided to happen today. You know, maybe the Almighty herself wasn't done shitting on him just yet.

Crowley slumped to sit against a grimy wall, sticking his bony legs out onto the floor.

This day had been absolutely _nerve-wracking_ and he wanted to curl up and sleep for a century.

First Aziraphale had gone missing. Which had nearly given him a heart attack. Then they'd had bloody _tea and biscuits_ with Hastur. And then - _then_ , he was named _Prince sodding consort_ in some sssstupid mix up and nearly ruined the angel's ceremony.

Crowley huffed out miserable breath and took off his sunglasses to better rub at his tired eyes.

A faint glow that could be felt like rays touching the edges of his essence rather than seen alerted him to the angel's nearing presence. Soon enough, Aziraphale was there, crouching next to him in all his kingly finery, although the crown was hidden from sight in the same space his wings were.

"I'm sorry, my dear..." the angel said quietly. "Is it all right if I join you?"

Crowley blinked. "Yeah, 'course, but... what are you doing out here? You're supposed to be enjoying your party."

When Aziraphale looked intent upon staying, Crowley hurriedly took off his small jacket and placed it on the floor so that Aziraphale could sit without ruining his new clothes.

Aziraphale looked touched by the little gesture. He smiled at Crowley and then sat down on the offered garment next to him. He glanced sideways at the demon. "Well... that went down like a lead balloon, didn't it?"

Crowley snorted, "Yeah... yeah, you could say that. I think I could do with a drink."

Aziraphale nodded and conjured a bottle of red. He uncorked it with his bare hands and offered it to Crowley.

Crowley's lip curled up at the corner at the lack of propriety. It was in direct contrast to the angel's regal clothes and new title. Here Aziraphale was, sat on the dirty floor with a lowly demon, about to swig booze straight out of the bottle like a teenager at a park.

There were many sides to the old angel.

Crowley accepted the wine, and his fingers lingered on Aziraphale's for perhaps a little too long.

He took a long drink, then offered it back.

Aziraphale drank deeply too. Then he sighed and put the bottle on the ground between them, glancing at Crowley. "It's a bit funny, isn't it?" he asked a bit shakily, "that they would make such an assumption?"

Crowley just looked at the angel beside him. He didn't think it was funny at all.

Aziraphale must _know_ how he felt. It had been six thousand years, and Crowley had been completely, embarrassingly besotted for most of them. But, if the angel wanted to forget this ever happened, if he needed to just laugh about it, and sweep it under the rug, then Crowley could pretend for him.

"Yeah," he said, but it didn't sound right. His voice was choked. "Hilarious."

"Right..." Aziraphale murmured, looking away. He looked nervous and fearful in some strange way, more so than while facing a huge crowd of demons. More anxious than at the moment of first stepping in front of the Lords of Hell and proclaiming to be their King. More uncertain than while freeing the prisoners from the deepest pits.

It took all of his courage and newly gained confidence to look at Crowley again and say the next words.

"I just thought..." he said, "it made me think of what we could have... if we were free before. And you know... now we _are_ free. And, well... I'm really sorry you got into the center of attention like that. I would understand if you don't want that ever again, I really would."

He bit his lip, but then he continued hopefully. "But if you wouldn't mind bearing with it, I... I would really like to have you there, by my side, my dear. I don't mean getting married right now, of course, that would be definitely too fast. But... maybe just a little faster would be nice... if you would want that, of course."

He didn't breathe then, just waited for Crowley's reply, as tense as the moment when your favourite mug just fell on the floor and you are afraid to look and see if it's shattered or not.

 _Oh,_ thought Crowley, distantly, _he'd - he'd just come out and said it, just like that._

Well, Aziraphale had always been the brave one. Best not think about that marriage bit mind, he didn't want his head to explode. But the going faster bit. He could do that.

"Yes," blurted Crowley, because he'd never been so sure of anything in his life. Eyes wide and heart thumping and mouth running off without his brain. "Fuck yes. Yes please."

"You... yes? Oh. Oh dear." Aziraphale gave a short, giddy laugh, drunk with relief. "And do you think... would you mind kissing me? Please?" He leaned towards Crowley, crossing half of the distance between them, and his eyes were shining with hope.

Crowley's fingers reached out first. He swept a careful thumb over the flushed skin of Aziraphale's cheek, and then cradled the soft face in his palm as if Aziraphale were something precious.

He'd never been able to deny his angel anything.

"Would I _mind_ kissing you," Crowley said, breathing out an incredulous breath. Then he closed the gap.

It was only a press of lips. Tentative, impossibly gentle.

Crowley was lost completely in the sensation. He'd never been so happy in his life. He thought his heart was trying to escape out of his ears, and his eyes were wet but he didn't close them. He didn't want to miss a single bloody moment of this.

He felt Aziraphale's lips pressing against his and a soft, shaky exhale escaping through them, warm against Crowley's skin.

Aziraphale shifted closer, as if physical distance suddenly became unbearable. In the process he knocked over the bottle of wine that was between them and before he caught it without breaking the kiss, some of the wine splashed on his white cloak.

He ignored it.

Setting the bottle on the ground a bit further away with one hand, he cradled the back of Crowley's head with the other. His lips opened just slightly, exploring the ways how they fit against Crowley's, needy and a bit disbelieving still. He made a little sound at the back of his throat, a quiet moan filled with a millennia of emotions. His eyes pricked with tears, but he still didn't break the kiss, unwilling to part now that he could have what he longed for.

Crowley had to break the kiss eventually. If not, he thought he might just be completely buggering overwhelmed by the sensation, he might just go right up in a plume of smoke like a rocket.

He broke the kiss carefully, achingly gentle. Only moving so far away that their lips didn't touch, but pressing his forehead against Aziraphale's and letting out a shaky, stupidly happy breath.

All the worries that had previously filled his mind had gone. There was nothing but Aziraphale.

"All right, angel?" he asked, softly, yellow eyes searching Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale's hand moved from Crowley's nape, where his fingers were buried in the ginger hair, to the demon's cheek, cupping it and wiping away the wetness under the eyes with his thumb.

"Wonderful," the angel breathed out and gave him an impossibly radiant smile. "Absolutely wonderful, my dear. Thank you..."

Crowley felt his mouth pull into an involuntary grin, "yeah?"

He stole another kiss, this one from the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. Then another, he took from the soft swell of the angel's cheek, and then the tip of his pink nose. Couldn't stop himself. Ohh, fuck. He never wanted to stop.

Crowley pulled himself back reluctantly. Because they were currently huddled together on a grubby floor in Hell, and Aziraphale deserved much better than this, didn't he? Even if Crowley was completely infatuated and perfectly willing to canoodle about in the dark hallway until some demons found him snogging the face off their new King.

"We should... we should, uh..." he trailed off.

"Return to the feast?" Aziraphale asked. "Or get away from it to the bookshop? Whatever you want. I'm fine with both..."

Crowley didn't know what he wanted. Well, all right, he _did_ \- he wanted to do a lot more kissing, thank you very much.

"You choose. It's your day, angel," Crowley insisted, "and it's been a bloody rough one, all things considered. I'll go with you, whatever you want to do. M'sorry for disappearing, just. Had a bunch of rubbish on my mind. Can't remember a bloody thing of it now, though." He took the angel's hand and gave it a squeeze, unable to keep the grin off his face. "None of it seems to matter anymore."

He got to his feet, gently pulling Aziraphale with him.

"So, what's it to be?"

Aziraphale smiled fondly, but his voice shook a little, as if overwhelmed with the magnitude of what just happened - and not by the becoming a king part. "You always consider what I'd want, my dear. But you've had a bloody rough day - as you put it - too. I dare to say even more so."

He reached his hand and caressed the demon's cheek again, in apology. "I don't think we should get back to the feast for long. I just thought you might want to leave them with a bit different impression than we did before. Maybe dance a little... you know, I _practiced_. Or we could just leave right away without caring what anyone thinks because it really was a bit... well, a lot. And... oh," he muttered as he noticed the wine stain on his cloak.

"Allow me," said Crowley.

He traced the stain with a hand, ever so tenderly, and it disappeared in showy swirls of red.

What? He had _flair_.

Aziraphale watched the stain lift from his cloak and _swooned_. It was an honest-to-goodness old-fashioned swoon worthy of a Victorian lady as he leant on Crowley to keep upright.

"So, you fancy a boogie with an old serpent do you?" Crowley winked, lacing his fingers through the angel's. "Come on, then."

"That would be wonderful, my dear," Aziraphale said, but didn't stop leaning on Crowley as they headed back to the Banquet Hall.

For all of Crowley's outwardly calm - and hopefully suave - appearance, inside he was buzzing like one of Lord Beelzebub's flies. The angel's hand was warm in his own, and he just couldn't believe how bloody _lucky_ he was.

He'd just _kissed Aziraphale_ , for Christ's sake! Nope. Still couldn't believe it. He felt like - like twirling the angel round and round and then dipping him in front of everyone. Hell, he just might.

They entered the hall, gripping each other's hand tightly.

There was no dramatic hush this time. The celebration was in a too advanced a stage for that, and many of the demons hadn't even noticed that their King disappeared in the first place. But one by one, they noticed him coming back, because the lights in the room couldn't rival the soft glow of an angel who was in love and who knew he was loved in return.

Hastur was one of the first who turned towards them. He avoided Crowley with his gaze, but gave Aziraphale a thumbs-up. Dagon, on the other hand, looked thoroughly confused.

They headed for the dance floor, and the aura around them must have changed reality somehow, because the music that just started playing wasn't the gavotte or the Macarena. It was a song about a nightingale.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley a bit nervously. "I... uh... don't know the steps for this."

"Me neither. S'okay, angel," Crowley said, bowing his head over Aziraphale's hand that he still held in his, a clear offer to dance. Then he straightened up with an enamoured grin. "How about we figure this one out together, eh?"

Crowley was just as bloody nervous as Aziraphale - stomach fluttering, hands clammy, hair threatening to spontaneously combust. But at this point he wanted nothing more than to hold Aziraphale close, and sod anyone who got in the way.

His angel had asked for a dance. He was going to get one.

Crowley put a trembling hand on Aziraphale's waist, and drew him close.

"This okay?" he asked.

The angel shivered lightly under his touch and put his hand on Crowley's shoulder. He nodded.

"Start on three?" he asked, his voice shaking a little, possibly with lightheadedness from the closeness combined with the anxiety of not knowing the steps.

"One... two.. three," he counted and then stepped on Crowley's toes as they both moved at the same time. "Sorry, sorry..." he apologized, but didn't let go of Crowley's shoulder. "Once more, okay? One... two.. three..."

They managed two steps before stepping on each other's toes this time. Crowley snorted, offering up a nervous grin which dissipated some of the tension. They forewent the counting for the next tries, but didn't give up. They bumped into each other and took turns in apologizing and reassuring the other that it was fine, and making jokes about having four left feet. But gradually, they managed to work out some moves that worked well together. It wasn't anything fancy. Just small movements, close to each other, finding a common rhythm (that wasn't necessarily the same as the rhythm of the song, but they didn't particularly care about that).

Gaining a little more confidence, Aziraphale finally stopped looking at his own feet and looked at Crowley, a ridiculously happy smile spreading on his pink lips.

Crowley grinned back. It was impossible not to when faced with a smile like that, it was contagious. He let out a breath of laughter, because this was _fun_ \- and he hadn't expected it to feel so bloody wonderful - but then that was Aziraphale for you, full of surprises. He clutched at the angel's waist in a bold move, picking him up briefly in a surge of exhilaration and spinning him round once before placing him back on his feet, earning a startled giggle from Aziraphale and nearly unbalancing them both.

Worth it.

Crowley could feel his wings itching to be released - he wanted to take the angel flying, wanted to hold his hand and bloody _soar._ He'd never felt this way before.

He leaned in, so that his breath tickled at the angel's ear, "Well, reckon we got the hang of this, eh?"

Oops. Bit of a mistake. Now that he wasn't focused on Aziraphale, Crowley could clearly see the rows of demons all staring misty-eyed at them. He'd completely forgotten they had an audience. He swallowed, slowing his steps.

Aziraphale turned his head and followed Crowley's gaze. "Ah," he blushed a little, stopping the dance. "Well. I believe they can entertain themselves without us for the rest of the evening, what do you think, my dear? Shall we leave them to it?"

Crowley's heart leapt into his mouth at the thought. He swallowed it back down. "What, you mean I'd get you all to myself?" he said, and now that they'd stopped the dance he let go of the angel's waist, only to take his soft hand and press a kiss to it. "How can I refuse."

Aziraphale almost swooned again, his knees getting weak with the gentle gesture, but managed to keep his balance as he reminded himself of the audience. His eyes were a little glazed though, and it was evident he was overwhelmed by it all and barely keeping himself together.

He put his hand into Crowley's and let himself be led away from the feast, just stopping in the dressing room shortly to change his kingly clothes into his old comfortable ones, not even noticing that Adrammelech mended his cloak. He looked like all his wishes had come true, with becoming the King of Hell being just a nice little bonus on the top of that.

An angel and a demon stepped out into the cool London night hand in hand, and couples all around the city found themselves pulled into each other's arms, all quarrels resolved, old relationships gaining a new spark, shy friends admitting their love to each other.

Unaware of this, Aziraphale and Crowley reached the bookshop together. There were many unsaid words between them, over 6000 years worth of them, but those would wait a while longer. For tonight, there were only kisses and embraces and overwhelmed tears, the feeling of two pieces of a puzzle finally fitting perfectly together.


	11. Chapter 11

They were dating. In a relationship. It was hard to wrap their minds around that at first. It felt like soaring, and spinning, and all those sappy clichés - like little pink hearts flying around, and the swell of violins sounding out of nowhere. Needless to say, Hell's new King seemed rather distracted during the first few days of his rule, if he managed to show up at all.

Gradually though, Aziraphale and Crowley grew more used to it - still wondering how they could possibly be so lucky, but not thinking about it constantly. They were comfortable in each other's presence. The feelings, after all, had always been there, only now, they were finally moving in tandem.

They managed to actually get some work done then.

The vote about Aziraphale's executive power happened without much fuss - which was a considerable success, since these were demons voting. The results were in his favour, even if it wasn't an overwhelming victory. That result actually pleased Aziraphale more than an overwhelming victory would, because it meant that the demons weren't voting because of a temporary fascination with him, but instead, they kept their own opinions - unlike what he imagined most angels would do, if they would be given such a choice.

Now the work could truly begin.

One of the changes that happened in Hell was without Aziraphale's knowledge. Crowley was involved as a consultant in it, because it was a surprise for the angel.

It was Hell's Kitchen.

They actually brought Gordon Ramsay Down There to teach them. It led to some discorporations, but now the demons working there could rival the best chefs.

There was also a bath now, using the natural hot springs that ran deep below the building. The new expansion, which gave every demon a personal space that was off limits to others, raised the morale even further.

Hell was turning out to be a rather pleasant place to be, all things considered.

With the internal infernal matters being on a good way, it was time for an official meeting with a representative of the Other Side.

Aziraphale was not looking forward to it.

Crowley was. Sort of. _Well_ , he was hoping he could rub their noses in it, actually. Get them to see what they were missing, what they might've kept if they hadn't have treated the angel so badly. It was high time that Heaven saw just what Aziraphale was capable of.

Crowley was _proud_ of him.

"It'll be fine, angel," he said with a cheeky wink.

Aziraphale nodded, but wrung his hands nervously as they were going up on the escalator. At least they weren't going all the way up. The meeting between the representatives of Heaven and Hell was on the ground floor of the office building, on neutral ground. Through back diplomatic channels, they agreed on one accompanying person and Aziraphale picked Crowley for the moral support, despite Beelzebub's disappointment that they wouldn't get to see Gabriel's expression. Aziraphale promised to give them a full account when he came back.

Somewhere in the corner of his mind he was also looking forward to seeing his former boss's reaction to the news, and for that reason he wasn't wearing any royal insignia, saving the revelation for a properly dramatic moment like the bastard he was.

But as they neared the top of the escalator, Aziraphale found himself getting more and more nervous. He feared that he wouldn't be able to break the deeply ingrained habits instilled in him after years of being trodden down by Heaven. He feared he would not be able to stand up to Gabriel. Oh dear, what if he made a fool of himself? The demons would be terribly ashamed of him.

"Hey," said Crowley, gently, "you all right?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. I just hope he didn't bring Sandalphon," Aziraphale murmured, smiling weakly. And then with one more step forwards, they were in front of the door to the small conference room, where the meeting was supposed to take place.

* * *

Gabriel didn't know what to expect from the meeting. He had tried to get some intel from Beelzebub, but they were adamantly quiet regarding the identity of the new ruler of Hell.

He put on his best suit and best confident expression, but also took Michael with him instead of Sandalphon, who would have been his first choice - there was nothing like a bit of mindless nodding, and simpering smiles, to boost his authority. But Michael has defeated Lucifer in a fight before. Whoever the replacement was, it might be useful to have a reminder of that defeat around.

The only thing he knew was that it wasn't Beelzebub. That would make most sense, but apparently Beelzebub was still the second in power and responsible for arranging the meeting from Hell's side. Gabriel thought about other demons he knew, but none of them seemed fit for the role.

So it was either someone he knew - someone totally inadequate for the job and easy to take advantage of, or someone new who might actually be a worthy replacement for Satan.

The uncertainty was making him nervous.

He hated feeling uncertain and he hated feeling nervous.

He felt cold sweat trickle down his temple when the doorknob moved. Well, here was the moment of truth. Would it be some incompetent sod they could take advantage of, or someone to be wary of?

_And the new King of Hell is…_

Gabriel blinked. And then he blinked again.

He wasn't seeing things, that was indeed Aziraphale standing in the doorway like an imbecile.

"Aziraphale?" he spat out, with clear disdain. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Oh, great. This was just what he needed. And that ridiculous demon was here as well. They were here to try and sabotage the meeting, were they? Well, Gabriel wasn't having it. The situation between Heaven and Hell was fraught enough without these two idiots interfering. Heaven had agreed to leave Aziraphale alone after his little stunt, and that, as far as Gabriel had been concerned, had been the end of it. The archangel had no desire to ever see him again, especially not during something as critically important as this.

It wasn't that Gabriel was scared of him.

He waved a hand at them in annoyance, to send them on their way. "Get out of here, this is a private conference space!"

They did not get out. Aziraphale just watched him with that stupid polite expression of his, as dense as ever.

"I said get _out_ ," Gabriel snarled. "I've got an important meeting arranged."

"Oh, really?" Aziraphale asked with interest. "With whom?"

Gabriel pressed his fingers to his temples in exasperation. "That doesn't concern you, Aziraphale. I suggest that you heed my advice, and get out of here before I get angry. _And_ before the other party shows up. Count yourself lucky that I don't have time for you now."

A shade of uncertainty passed over Aziraphale's face when he registered Gabriel's condescending tone. He clasped his hands in front of his worn waistcoat and glanced over to Crowley.

Their eyes met just briefly, but that seemed enough to reassure Aziraphale. "Well, actually..." he said, but before he could finish the sentence, Michael stormed up to them her heels clicking over the marble floor. It appeared that her patience had run out as the agreed time of the meeting passed just a moment ago.

" _You_ ," she said coldly, as she stepped into Aziraphale's personal space. "You heard Gabriel. We haven't time to entertain whatever ridiculous scheme you've thought up this time. Get _out_!"

Oop. She really shouldn't have done that. Crowley bared his fangs warningly, hackles raised. The room heated up a few degrees. "Michael!" he addressed the archangel, getting in between her and Aziraphale. Michael was forced to take a step back in case she got bitten, " _Dude_. I never thanked you for the towel, did I? Rude of me."

Michael narrowed her eyes. "Don't make me smite you, demon," she said in response, her words clipped and dangerous.

"Pfft, doubt you could if you tried. I'm immune to all that rubbish, remember? Anyway. Seems to me, there's been a bit of a misunderstanding here, which is embarrassing. For _you_ , I mean."

"What are you _talking about?_ "

Crowley couldn't have stopped the grin bursting onto his face if he tried, which he didn't. "May I introduce his majesty, King of Hell?"

Gabriel sighed in exasperation. "Yes, that's what we came here for! I should have realised you two would try to meddle in this as well. As if you haven't caused enough damage already. Go on then, stop wasting our time and introduce him."

Aziraphale gained some confidence with Crowley's clever remark to Michael. It reminded him that he was supposed to be the one who had breathed hellfire at Gabriel. He suppressed a little smug grin and instead gave Gabriel a pleasant smile that somehow felt even more insulting.

"It didn't take Beelzebub that long to figure out," he stated and raised his hand to inspect his perfectly manicured fingernails in a feigned disinterest, waiting for Gabriel to finally get it.

He could have as well waited for Atlantis to rise again. The idea of Aziraphale in a position of power was just inconceivable to Gabriel. Aziraphale in Hell, he could imagine that. But Aziraphale as a King? Nothing like that could happen in Gabriel's world.

Michael got a little suspicious though, after a moment of silence. "No. That..."

"Yes," Aziraphale smiled.

"That can't be. You're not even a demon... or...?"

"No," Aziraphale said, but calling himself an angel in front of his former bosses didn't really sit well with him, either, despite knowing that he was one. It was something about the " _Arch_ " prefix in their titles. It rather made calling himself an angel sound like accepting them to be superior. "I'm... something else entirely," he said with a little smile that gave a slightly intimidating impression.

"What," Gabriel demanded, through clenched teeth, his usual cool demeanour long since departed, "the _fuck_ are you talking about, Aziraphale."

Michael was still staring at the new King, she was starting to resemble a statue. "I don't believe it."

Aziraphale tutted a little under his breath. "Well, that's hardly _my_ problem."

Gabriel still didn't get it. He turned to the other Archangel. "What don't you believe?  
I've had just about enough of this, sunshine. Would someone please tell me what the Hell is going on?"

After a small moment of silence, which yes, may _possibly_ have been for dramatic effect - he did enjoy a little showmanship, after all - Aziraphale finally decided to enlighten him.

"This," he said simply and brought forth the flaming crown.

As a result, he got to experience Gabriel's shocked expression firsthand. It was the very same expression that the archangel had adopted when he had hellfire breathed in his face. Crowley had described it in great detail over a few bottles of wine _\- "Like he was actually shitting himself," the demon had cackled, "y'know, I wish you could've seen it, angel. He was_ terrified _of you_."

Aziraphale waited for the effect to settle in, smiling pleasantly all the time, and enjoying himself immensely.

Michael's eyes were as wide as saucers. She put a trembling hand to her mouth. "How?"

"It's ineffable," Aziraphale said, rather helpfully.

"Wait… wait. _Wait."_ Gabriel spluttered, having the audacity to point a finger at him. "You mean _... you_ are the King of Hell?"

"Dear Lord," remarked Aziraphale to Crowley, grey eyes twinkling, "Do you know, I think he's _finally_ grasped it?"

Crowley grinned back, "Took him bloody long enough! Not too sharp, is he? Dunno how you put up with him all those years. Would've driven me up the bloody wall."

"It was certainly no picnic, I don't mind telling you."

"Can't imagine. You must have the patience of a saint, angel."

Aziraphale pressed a pleased hand over his heart, "Oh, do you really think so? How lovely of you to say," he preened, and then seemed to realise he had been flirting in front of his former colleagues for perhaps a little too long, and cleared his throat, turning back towards them. "So, are we going to discuss politics or was that enough information for the first meeting?"

Gabriel was beginning to resemble a breathless fish. Which was more than a little satisfying to see. His hands were grasped so tightly together they were beginning to turn white. "But - but that's _impossible_!"

Aziraphale sighed. He and Crowley exchanged a dry look. "I see," he said, "still not quite there yet, are we? Dear, dear. Well. Take your time, please. Let Beelzebub know when you're ready for another meeting where we actually get some things done. Pip-pip."

And with that, the angel walked out of the room with a straight face, leaving Gabriel to process the information, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

Aziraphale only started chuckling when they reached the bottom of the escalator.

 _Well, well_ , Crowley thought with a fond smile. Look at the wonderful bastard, showing that smug arsehole of an Archangel his place.

"Did you see Gabriel's expression?" Aziraphale giggled.

Crowley entangled his fingers with the angel's, just because he could, and he wanted to, and that was a thing they got to do now, and wasn't it wonderful? His smile was so wide it threatened to crack his face in two. He barked out a laugh. "Hard to bloody miss it! He looked like someone had just forcibly removed the stick from his arse. About bloody time if you asked me."

That earned him a light slap on the arm and a further flurry of giggles from the angel.

Crowley winked, "Took him a bit, but I think maybe he just managed to piece it together, right at the end."

Aziraphale looked so proud of himself that he was practically glowing.

And Crowley _had_ been looking at Gabriel during the meeting, for a bit, but to tell the truth, he'd mostly been looking at Aziraphale. Because the angel was really something, wasn't he? Crowley was just... so in awe of him. He squeezed his hand, swinging their arms a little.

"I suppose we should inform Beelzebub of the goings on, and Gabriel's, ah…"

"Incompetence?" offered Crowley.

Aziraphale clutched his hand tightly, beaming, "Precisely."

They stepped into Hell together.

Aziraphale rolled his shoulders, any lingering tension dissipating from his gentle features. "Ah," he said, relieved, "that's much better."

Crowley didn't really know what came over him in that moment - it probably had a great deal to do with watching the angel hand Gabriel his own arse, because _wow_ \- and probably also the way that Aziraphale now appeared so calm and carefree, just the way he should be - Crowley found that he just couldn't help himself.

He leaned in and kissed the angel, right there, in front of everyone.

"Gosh," breathed Aziraphale once they'd parted, licking his lips. He was surprised to find himself dipped low to the ground, Crowley's arms around him, holding him with care.

"Gosh," agreed Crowley, who thought himself a very lucky demon indeed.

They looked up, startled to hear applause, and a few wolf whistles. Crowley could make out Ob and Grg among the chief noisemakers.

A cheer went up then, as Crowley placed Aziraphale gently back on his feet.

"WAHOO!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely reactions to this story! We're marking it as complete for now, but it's possible we will add to it in the future because we still have more ideas for it (*cough*wedding*cough*) that we aren't able to write right now. So maybe don't unsubscribe ;)
> 
> P.S.: We'd totally read about an episode of [Hell's Hell's Kitchen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327167/chapters/70195164) or about [how the Erics are doing at the uni](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327167/chapters/70090950#workskin), if someone would write it :)


End file.
